Their camp was just outside the old boundary wall of the city, in a wooded area on the crest of a hill that overlooked the valley below. Central City sprawled out before them as far as they could see. The secluded camp sat in a clearing between six oak trees. Branches from the trees stretched into the middle of the space, creating a natural covering that protected their dwellings from rain and snow in the winter, from searing heat in the dry summer, and from surveillance drones and satellites all year round. The leaves had recently fallen from the branches, covering the forest floor in a damp, orange-yellow carpet. In the centre of the clearing was a campfire, with stones gathered round it for seats. A collection of mismatched tins, pots, plates and cooking utensils were gathered in a pile, still to be cleaned after their meal the previous evening. Danny picked up a metal pail and walked across the clearing. A hundred metres through the woods was a small burn that flowed down the hillside. It eventually joined with other streams and flowed into the river, heading towards the sea. Danny heard a steady trickle through the trees, the heavy rain the night before had swelled the flow of fresh water. His feet shuffled through the fallen leaves, he kicked pine cones as he wandered along. In the peace of the forest he could have forgotten they were overlooking a war zone.
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