294,845 BCE – 294,725 BCE | Episodes 1033–1056

In the morning, an old woman had stopped moving.

Her arm was swollen. It had been swollen the day before as well, but today the color was different. The one walked close, then stopped. There was a smell. Not the smell of earth. The smell of something coming apart.

The body stepped back. It was not a decision. The feet moved first.

The adults in the group were making sounds. Some moved toward her. The one did not. With eyes that seemed to be looking somewhere far away, the one watched the swollen arm.

Before the sun reached its height, the old woman stopped moving. Someone cried out. It was a long sound. The one listened to that sound and walked toward the edge of the camp.

Sat down beside the fire.

Picked up a dry branch. Held it close to the flame. The tip began to smoke. The one pressed it into the ground. A thin thread of smoke rose. Picked it up again. Pressed it down again.

It seemed as though something was being confirmed. What that something was, even this one did not know.

In the evening, the one went down to the river. Scooped water with both hands. Washed the face. Rubbed the hands together. Washed again.

In the sand along the bank, there was a large footprint. Not made this morning.

The one looked at it for a while. Followed with the eyes the trail of where it had gone. Toward the hills.

Upon returning, someone in the group was groaning again.

The hole where water seeps through is widened with bare hands. Mud works its way between the fingers. Cold.

One of the children brought mud to its mouth. The one reached out and pushed the mud from the child's mouth. The child cried. The one ignored the crying and dug again.

Why it had done this, even the one did not know. Only that it had felt, sensed, that putting it in the mouth was wrong.

The water collects, little by little. Cupped in the palm. Swallowed.

Something is different.

Something is different from the usual feel of water. Something faintly bitter lingers at the back of the tongue. The one spat it out. Cupped again, and this time brought it to the nose without drinking.

The children reached their hands forward. The one pulled them away from the hole. The children cried again.

An older male from the group approached. The one pointed to the hole with a finger. The man crouched down, cupped the water, and drank. He nodded. Drank again.

The one said nothing.

There were no words to say it with.

By evening, the man sat hunched over, pressing his stomach. Before the night was through, he had stopped moving.

The one sat beside the man until dawn. Again and again it looked at his face, as though confirming something. The face was still. Only heavier than before.

Morning came.

The others from the group gathered. Someone looked at the one. Looked at the man. Looked at the one again.

The one rose and ran.

Waking before the light.

The others were still collapsed in sleep. One child had its face pressed against someone's side, breathing there. The belly rose and fell. The one looked, then looked away.

Hunger.

The day before, roots had been dug up near the water. Tough roots — even when beaten with a stone, the fibers remained. Chewed through. Swallowed. This morning, something heavy lingered deep in the stomach. The weight of having swallowed a stone.

Walking.

It was not that the one believed it was its role to run along the edge of the group — but no one stopped it, so it ran. No one came along, so it went alone. That was all.

Moving through the dry grass. The ground was hard, making no sound underfoot. White traces remained where the grass had been flattened. Something had passed through days ago. A creature, perhaps. Another group. Or the wind.

Something reached the back of the nose.

The one stopped.

A scorched smell. Distant. But unmistakably there.

Turned back.

Nothing. No smoke. The sky was beginning to go white.

The one turned once more toward where the smell had come from. The feet did not move. Something inside the body was pulling in two directions. Forward or back — those words did not exist, but the body knew the question.

In the end, forward.

Which side had won the pulling, the one could not say.

Arriving at the water. The surface trembled finely in the wind. The one crouched and scooped water with both hands. Drank. Drank again.

The sky went fully white.

The one sat looking at the water's surface. Its own face wavered there. With each ripple, a different face. Which was its own face — the one did not ask. Only looked. Kept looking.

At last it rose, and turned back toward the group.

Standing at the edge of cliffs was this one's work.

The outermost edge of the group. The farthest point.
When a predator came, cry out. When a band of the old ones drew near, cry out.
Cry out, and run. That was all that was needed.

The dry season had stretched on.
The water was growing distant, and the group moved.
This one ran ahead. The feet were swift. Even on an empty stomach, this one could run.

One morning, the edge of a new cliff was reached.
Below, a valley opened.
Wind rose from below. The smell of rotting grass and wet earth mingled together.

A stone underfoot shifted.

This one did not notice.
The foot that reached to find its footing found only air.

No sound came.
A fall.

At the bottom of the valley, this one lay on one side.
The sky was visible. Through a crack in the rock, a thin light reached down.
One arm would not move. Nor would one leg.

The light moved slowly.
This one's eyes followed it.
Followed it, and were still.

Wind blew.
From the top of the cliff, a single pebble fell.

A sound was made.
It no longer reached the one below.

He was the one who stood at the cliff's edge.

Others took turns, by day and by night, but at night it was often him. His eyes were accustomed to the dark. He knew this about himself. Or rather, his body knew it.

That night, the north wind stopped for a moment.

His skin felt it. The sensation of wind that did not come. That was all. Yet he looked toward the ridge. For no reason. He simply looked.

Something moved in the darkness.

It was large.

His arm rose. A sound came. The companions stirred awake. The woman tending the fire stood. Someone carrying a child began to run.

He did not move. He stood at the cliff's edge and watched the shadow.

It was the archaic clan. Three of them. Moving toward the watering hole. They were not looking this way.

He lowered his voice. He waved his hand at the companions. He moved his hand in the shape of: do not come.

The three shadows stopped at the water. They drank. They left.

At dawn, he descended the cliff. A sharp stone edge pressed into the sole of his foot. He walked with it still there. He sat down beside the group's fire. The ash had turned white. The fire had grown weak.

He took a branch and pushed it into the fire.

The flame returned.

He watched it. He said nothing. He did not know himself whether there were no words, or whether no words were needed.

With his fingers, he pulled the stone from his sole.

Blood came.

He looked at the blood. Then he looked at the sky. The sky was white.

The dry season came. Brown began to bleed in from the edges of the grassland.

The man carried fire with him. Each time they moved, he wrapped embers in cloth and held them against his chest, keeping the heat alive. As the group walked, he attended to that warmth with every breath, making sure it did not go out.

Many lives existed now upon this earth. But near the boundary where their range met that of the northern group, death had been accumulating. Food had grown scarce, the watering places had dried up, and one group had pressed into another's territory.

What the man came to know was that one of his companions had not returned. He waited for dusk. Night came. He waited through the following morning as well. He arranged stones to mark the place. That was all.

The year the rains returned, the trees bore abundant fruit. Three children were born. The man knew the names of two of them. The third disappeared before he ever learned its name.

Among the group there was an unfamiliar face. Through gestures, it became clear the stranger had come from the north. The hair was sparse, the forehead broad. The man looked at the one. The one looked at the man.

Neither said anything.

The wind blew from a certain direction. Something reached the man's nose. Not smoke. Not earth. Something else — and for just a moment he turned toward it. North. The direction the stranger had come from.

The man checked the fire again. The embers were still hot.

The group's elder accepted the one from the north. Words did not carry between them. Food was shared. That was the end of it. But that night, the man watched the northern one draw something on the ground — lines made with a stone. The man did not approach.

The next day, the drawing was gone. Whether someone had erased it, or the wind had, he could not tell.

Tension moved faster than sound. Without knowing it, the man had been standing near something he was not meant to know. The one from the north had been watching something. Then the one returned to wherever they had come from. The man had seen this. That was all. Yet someone had been watching the man.

It was near the end of five years, a night of continued dry wind.

The man sat beside the fire. The embers were red. A sound came from behind him. Before he could turn, his body tilted. The fire grew distant. The ground came close. He smelled grass.

The embers held their heat until morning. Someone passed them to another.

The charcoal wrapped in cloth had gone cold.

He checked it in the morning and found no warmth. The man pressed his palm against it, then pressed it again, then set it down on the ground, cloth and all.

The group had begun to move. From early morning, the pull of those who wanted to go south for water and the movement of those drawn north were colliding — not in words, but in the angle of bodies, in hands that reached, in shoulders that pushed back.

The man turned north.

If asked why, he could not have said. Only that his body still held something from the afternoon before — the way the light through the reeds had wavered in that direction.

Half the group followed. The rest scattered south.

Three days of walking, and there was water. Shallow, clouded, but water. The children went in first and drank like dogs. The man stood on the bank and watched.

Near the water, there were traces of another group. Bones. Ash. Ground packed hard underfoot. Someone had been here until recently.

The men stopped. They listened. There was nothing.

Even so, that night, the man did not move from the fire. He received a new cloth for wrapping the charcoal from a woman and held it against his chest. The warmth returned.

The next morning, another group arrived.

Not those who had gone south — these were faces he did not know, come from somewhere farther away.

They were carrying stones. They were ready.

The man stood. He opened both hands. He showed that he was holding nothing.

For a time, no one moved.

Then one among the other group lowered his stone. The man lowered his hands.

They shared the water. They drank. They watched each other drink.

By evening, the other group had gone. The man watched their backs recede. He did not know where they were going. He did not know where his own people were going.

That night, the charcoal held warmth again. The man made sure of it before lying down.

There was the smell of grass. The dry smell of earth.

Something called out in the distance.

The man did not close his eyes. He only listened, until the sound grew far away.

The man is not running. He is walking. Yet the farther he moves from the center of the group, the faster his feet carry him.

Behind him, voices. Not angry voices. Not voices pressing him with questions. Only his name, called again and again. That is what frightens him most.

Three days ago, the man had moved the fire.

He had sensed rain coming. The color of the rock had changed. The smell of the grass had changed. To leave the fire in a low place would mean losing it to the water. So he moved it up to a stone shelf. The rain came. The fire held. The people of the group passed through a wet night. That was all it was.

And yet something had shifted.

The elder men began to look at the one who had moved the fire differently. At first it was one. Then two. This morning, four of them had stood with their backs turned toward the man, speaking. He had heard their words. The sound of *he knew* had been repeated.

*He knew* — what did that mean in this group?

The man had never thought to wonder. He read the direction a fire would burn. He felt the turning of the wind. He knew how the earth tightened before water came. These things had always been inside him — not taught by anyone, never spoken of to anyone. His body simply did them.

He picked up a stone. Set it down. Picked it up again.

The voices came again. Closer now.

The man stopped. Ahead lay open grassland. The grass reached to his knees. Beyond it, a thicket of low shrubs. His body turned that way. No reason. A breath of wind moved from that direction. The grass swayed. No scent of animal — only the wind. But his feet moved toward it.

He entered the thicket. Leaves brushed against him. He stopped.

The voices of the group grew distant.

In that distant murmur, a child's cry was mixed in. Not his child. Still, the man's feet did not move. The grip on the dry branch in his hand loosened.

Should I go back, he thought.

What would happen if he went back — his body already knew, without thinking it through. When he stood at the center of the group, his skin knew how it would be handled.

The man crouched where he was, inside the thicket.

He smelled grass. He smelled wet earth. Somewhere, a bird called.

The heat of the ground rises through the soles of the feet.

A stop.

The voice behind continues. The same sound, repeated. A single sound. Brief. The one knows that this sound is directed at them.

The body turns.

The one who called is a young man. There is a scar on his face. An old scar, long since closed. The young man has raised his arm. He is pointing toward the group.

The one took a step back.

Then another.

The young man lowered his arm.

The two walk together. Toward the smoke. The smoke hangs low, drifting sideways. The wind has shifted.

At the edge of the camp, a woman sits alone. A child rests in her lap. The child is not moving. Not sleeping. There is no strength in the body. The woman says nothing. She simply holds her hand against the child's back.

The one stopped.

Beside the fire, there is cooked meat. No one takes it.

The one took the meat. Set it beside the woman. The woman did not look. She did not lift her hand from the child's back.

Night came. By morning the child had gone rigid. The woman lowered the child to the ground. She began to dig at the earth. With both hands. Her nails split. She kept digging. No one stopped her. No one helped her.

The one sat beside the fire and watched the flames.

The flames wavered. It was not the wind. It was the sound of something burning away.

The one added a piece of wood.

The fire went on.

Each time the fire began to die, this one woke.

Twice, three times in the night. The body was moving before the eyes had opened. A few twigs added. A breath blown. The flame returned. Only after making certain of this did the one lie down again.

Among a group, those who tend the fire come to sleep differently. Lightly, briefly, again and again. The body lies down, but the ears remain open.

In the afternoon, this one walked three hours tracking an animal. It was not caught. On a rocky slope, the one slipped and struck a knee against the ground. The skin broke and bled. On the way back, the wound was held shut by hand. The one tried to close it with a pale stone found near a gully, but it did not work. And so the one returned as was.

Back at the camp, two children who had lost their mother to the plague were sitting near the fire. This one said nothing. Sitting beside the fire, the one went on breaking branches until the children fell asleep. Not to make noise, but to keep the hands moving.

That night, bones were placed over the fire. The smell of scorching spread through the air. The one took the bones out and held them. They were hot. The one held them for a while.

That the inside was hollow — this was known. Known is perhaps not quite right. It was simply something the one had never thought beyond.

The bone was set on the ground.

Then picked up again.

Set down.

At the edge of the plateau, there is a place where stones have been stacked.

The one did not stack them. No one remembers who did. But from early youth, whenever exhaustion came, the one would walk to that place and rest a hand on the stones. The stones hold the heat of midday well into the night.

At fifty-seven, the one's right knee ceased to bend.

Walking was still possible. Running was not. When joining the hunt, the one would often wait outside the camp while the young ones dragged the catch back. When they returned, the one would rise and go to receive it. Favoring the knee. That was all.

The tending of the fire had not yet been handed over.

Each morning, the embers were checked. Short lengths of wood were chosen. Timber from near damp ground was never used. Who had taught these things, the one could not say. The body knew.

There was tension within the group.

In the places where their range overlapped with a band of the old people, there had been several confrontations. One of the young ones did not return. Two days later, he was found at the base of the plateau. No one spoke of it in detail. The one did not ask.

Yet the one knew something.

At night, when the young men spoke beside the fire, their voices would drop low. When the one drew near, the voices fell lower still, and then went quiet. The one made a pretense of tending the fire, and moved away.

Three days later, there was a dispute over the division of food.

The one stepped between them. An old gesture: both hands opened wide. Not meaning *calm yourselves*. Only meaning *I hold nothing*. One of the young ones looked at the one's face for a long time. A long time.

That night, the one placed a hand on the stones at the plateau's edge.

The stones were cold. The season had turned. Under the hand, the stone was smooth, and the one simply sat down.

The knee ached.

When morning came, one of the young ones was gone. The next morning, another. When the third disappeared, an old woman said something in a low voice. The one could not make out the words.

The one stopped eating.

At first, no one noticed. When a small child brought fruit, the one accepted it and passed it to another child nearby. The child looked puzzled, then ran off.

It had been only the right knee that would not bend, but now the left was heavy too.

The one spent more and more time alone at the stones by the plateau's edge. Watching the direction the sun fell. The distant ridgeline had worn away. When the wind blew, the dry grass stems swayed. They made a sound. A thin sound.

One of the young men came near.

The one knew him. As a child, he had been taught the tending of fire. The man said nothing. He simply sat down beside the one. Together they looked at the ridgeline.

When the man left, he placed his hand on the one's shoulder for just a moment. Then took it away.

The one did not move.

A hand rests on the stone. The heat of midday is gone now. The sky darkens. Wind comes to the plateau's edge. The one narrowed both eyes. The distant ridgeline still holds a little brightness in the growing dark.

The sound of the grass stems goes on.

The heaviness that came over the body came slowly. The hand on the stone lost its strength by degrees. The fingers rested against the surface of the stone. Smooth.

Down below the plateau, smoke rose from a fire.

The one did not look that way. With eyes open, the one watched the last brightness on the ridgeline. When it faded, the one's body leaned against the stone and tilted quietly into the sound of the grass stems.

The one looked in the direction the grass had fallen.

The weight of the animal still lingered in the flattened grass. Crushed stems that could not straighten themselves. The one knelt and drew the smell of the earth into the lungs. A heavy smell—dry dung and the grease of an animal, mingled together. Not old.

Rose. Followed.

The grassland was low, open all the way to the horizon. The group was supposed to be driving the animal in from three sides. But no voices reached the ears. No smoke rose. Beyond the hill to the left, the others should have been waiting.

Stopped.

Far away, something cried out. Not an animal. A human voice. But not the voice of the group. Lower in pitch. Greater in number.

The one lowered the body to the ground. Belly against the grass. Eyes lifted just above the surface.

On the ridge, shapes appeared. One. Two. Five. The way they stood was different. The place where they carried their weight was different. The way they held their poles was different, and the poles themselves were a different length.

These were not people the one knew.

The breath was held. The earth beneath the belly was cold. The sound of the heartbeat seemed to be absorbed into the soil.

The figures on the ridge began to descend. Slowly. The sound of their feet through the grass grew closer. The one did not move. The body understood that not moving would determine something. A knowledge that had no words held the knees still.

At last the sounds drew away.

For a long time, the one did not move. A blade of grass rested against the cheek. An insect walked across the arm. It was ignored.

The voices came when the sun had begun to tilt. Two members of the group called through the grassland as they approached. They had found no prey.

That night, gathered around the fire, the one conveyed what had been seen on the ridge—through gestures and sounds. Five fingers raised. A low voice made. The shape of hands gripping a pole. The elder woman of the group stared into the fire for a long time.

After the fire had grown small, the one pressed fingers into the ash. It was not hot. Only the surface had cooled. Inside, something still remained.

There are places where the sound of stepping on rock changes.

On dry stone, the feet spring lightly. On wet stone, the sound sinks. The one had been choosing where to place each foot by sound alone. So many years of this that there is no thinking involved. The feet know first.

The sound of water came.

It was coming from beyond the rocks. Thin, continuous. The one stopped.

Breathing in through the nose. The smell of damp earth. Something like the coldness of moss. The distant smell of water.

One step forward. Then another.

Around the corner of the rock, it should have been visible.

But voices from the group reached the one. Not voices calling from far away. Voices shouting. Short, repeated. Not meaning come back. Meaning come now.

The one turned.

The sound of water stayed on in the back. It did not leave.

Running back at a half-jog, the one looked behind several times. The rocky ground was now beyond the bend, and the sound of water had mixed into the wind and could no longer be heard.

The one arrived at the group's place. Someone had collapsed. Pressing at the abdomen, not moving. It was the father's older brother. A wound on the abdomen, three days old. Festering. A scratch from a beast. The swollen skin had darkened.

The others stood watching. They did nothing. Whether they did nothing because they could not, or because they did not know there was anything to do, the one could not tell.

The one also watched.

By evening, the father's older brother had turned onto his side, still pressing at the swollen abdomen, and by the next morning he was no longer moving. No one went near. Whether they recoiled from the smell, or feared touching him, was unclear.

The one watched from a distance.

The sound of water was no longer in the one's thoughts.

Before the dry season came, the one came to know the hollow in the belly.

Not the belly crying out. The belly going silent. That is the deeper place of hunger. While it still cries, the body holds some expectation. When it falls silent, something other than resignation takes over. Simply continue. That is all that remains.

It was not the one who chose to leave the group. The group moved away from the one.

After the sickness had passed through, the eyes of those who remained had changed. Measuring eyes. Who could still move, who was worth the food they ate. The one could still move. So at first they stayed together. But each time the one went out after prey and returned, the times of returning empty-handed grew more frequent. The game on the grassland had moved. West, or north, in some direction the one could not determine.

One night, the one came to be seated outside the ring of fire.

Not driven out. It was not that there was no room. Only that, when awareness came, the one was outside the ring. No one came there.

The one stood. And walked.

Three days along a slope of reddish-brown earth, feeling the heaviness gathering in the knees.

On the morning of the fourth day, the wind shifted.

In the wind that came from the east, there was the smell of rotting fruit. The smell of overripe things fallen to the ground. The one stopped. Lifted the nose toward the sky. The smell came, faded, came again.

The body turned first. The feet followed.

At the bottom of the slope, rocks lay piled upon one another. From between them, thin roots hung down, and at the ends of those roots clung a few small, shriveled fruits. Dried out. No moisture left. But there was a sweet smell.

The one picked up a fruit. Put it in the mouth. Chewed.

It crumbled like sand, but sweetness lingered on the tongue. Another. Then one more.

Leaning into the shadow of the rocks, the one looked up at the sky.

The sky was white.

Not clouds — it was the dry air itself that made the sky appear that way. Within that color, a single bird traced a circle. Riding the thermal, describing its arc without a beat of its wings.

The one watched it with their eyes. The bird drew its circle, and drew it again.

No hand was raised. No sound was made. Only the watching continued.

Whether the one felt the strength leaving the body, it is impossible to say. The rock pressed against the back. The earth was warm. There was a dry smell in the air.

The bird was still tracing its circle.

At some point, the one's eyes ceased to follow the bird. They remained as they were, turned toward the sky.

Lying flat at the edge of the water source, watching the surface.

The old ones had already gone. While the others in the group drank, this one did not. Waiting for the rippling to stop. When it finally stilled, a face was reflected back. A face that seemed unfamiliar. There were no words for such a thing, but the body felt it so.

The throat was dry. Still, for a little while, the one waited.

The ancient ones had not crossed the river.

That was all that was confirmed.

The heat of the fire had not come from one direction. The one moved toward the warmth, and turned away.

A stone was rolled in the palm. Set down. Picked up again.

That night, at the edge of the group, knees drawn close. No sound. Only the river, unceasing.

The one walked at the edge of the group.

It had always been this way. A small gap between the one and those ahead. Close enough to close the distance, if the one had chosen to. But the one never chose to. That gap was where the one belonged.

The group moved along a path that traced the canyon. After the rain, the cliff's edge was red and damp.

The nuts the group had gathered sat in the one's leather pouch at the hip. Whether some had been picked up after others dropped them, or gathered alone — the one could no longer tell the difference. The pouch was heavy.

— Tension between groups.

For several days now, the smell of another group had drifted in. Not smoke. A wind carrying the scent of sweat came from upriver. The elders in the group stopped walking and looked at one another. The one did not understand what passed between them. Did not understand, and yet knew that something was being shared — something the one was not part of.

The one was set apart.

No words were spoken. Only this: when the one moved to join the line where water was being passed around, the person ahead turned. Looked at the one's face. Then turned back.

The one stood outside the line.

The next morning, the one was alone.

The group was gone. They must have moved in the night. The remains of the fire had gone white and cold. The one touched the ash with a finger. It was not warm.

Walking along the cliff's edge, the one searched for the river. Took a single nut from the pouch at the hip, and bit into it. It was bitter. Swallowed it anyway.

The soil at the cliff's edge had loosened further in the night's rain.

The one did not notice. When the ground began to give way, a foot found only air. The weight of the pouch shifted the body's course.

There was sound, all the way to the floor of the canyon. Birds fled.

Then silence settled.

The river flowed on, unchanged.

A dry wind crossed the lowlands. The grass broke at its roots, and sand moved like a belly dragging along the ground.

The one was carrying a heavy stone. Held in both arms, pressed against the chest, the body's weight given over to it. Walking without looking at the feet. The feet read the ground.

Somewhere in the middle of the group, a woman clutched her stomach and sat down. Those around her stopped. Some did not stop. The one stopped. But did not set the stone down. Stood there holding it.

That night, it was the one's turn to watch the fire.

Feed the wood. The flame rises. The flame falls. Feed it again. This repeated. Several who could not sleep drew close to the fire's edge. The one did not yield the place. The fire belonged to everyone, and yet there was something — something about being the one standing watch. The one had no word for it.

The heat lasted three days. The water source dried up. The group moved on.

The one walked toward the rear. Stayed beside those dragging heavy loads. Took a share of what they carried. Whether anyone saw this, the one did not care.

Within the group there was one who had come from an older band. Different in frame. A lower brow. Wider shoulders. Having been among them since childhood, that one had not been driven out. From time to time, by firelight, the one and that one sat facing the same direction. No words. The absence of words was not a hardship.

The rainy season came. The water returned.

The one was stretching hide. Using the edge of a stone to pull an animal skin taut. Pressing it down with a knee, pulling with both hands. The shoulder ached. No matter. Pull. Stretch. Pull again.

Warmth touched the right cheek.

Not from the direction of the fire. There was no wind. And yet something was there.

The one looked up. The hands left the hide. There was nothing. But the hands stayed still, and for a little while, the one looked at that place.

One morning, the one who had come from the older band was gone.

No one said anything. The group moved. The one moved too. But the feet were a little heavier than usual.

The group's unease gathered in the places without sound. Eyes met and quickly turned away. By the fire, someone would begin to say something and then not say it. The one felt this. Felt it, but could not put it into words.

Whether the one had known something, no one could say.

Perhaps the others had thought: this one knows too much. Perhaps they had thought nothing of the kind. Only this: one night, the one was tending the fire.

A stone came out of the dark.

The sound arrived first, then the impact, and the one fell sideways. The fire shuddered. The one watched the flame tremble, lying on the ground. The sound of wood collapsing.

Someone rearranged the wood. The watching of the fire passed to another.

The hand pulling the hide grows heavy. It stops again and again. Has not eaten since morning. Not yesterday either.

Tending the fire, watching the burning branches. Someone's shadow visible beyond the flames. The one does not lift its face. Feeds more branches to the fire. Smoke enters its eyes.

Sits at the edge of the group. Hears the sound of others dividing meat. The sound of bones cracking. Clicking of tongues. Brief voices. There is no portion for the one.

Night comes but still no sleep. Hugs knees before the fire. The flame grows small. Adds a branch. It grows small again. The branches run out.

The fire dies.

The one lies down. The coldness of the ground seeps into its back. Looks up at the sky. There are stars. They do not move.

Breathing grows shallow. The belly is empty. But there is no longer pain.

Places palm against the ground. The scent of earth. The scent of grass roots.

Closes eyes. They do not open.

The fire is low.

Before dawn, the one added branches. Their hands were trembling. They did not notice the trembling. The branches fell into the flames, and white smoke rose.

Deep in the belly, heat. On the skin, cold.

They tried to rise. Their legs would not answer. They pressed a hand to the rock, lowered to a knee, and still managed, slowly, to lift themselves upright.

They looked at the fire.

It was burning. That was all. That was enough.

The others of the group were sleeping. One child lay curled at the one's feet. The one did not look at the child. There was no strength left for looking. They only kept watching the flames.

The sky grew pale.

A bird's call came from somewhere distant. A voice they had always known. Today it was far away. The inside of their ears felt stopped up.

The one sat still and watched the fire grow small. The fire had been shrinking since the moment they could no longer add branches, and the one knew this. Knowing it, their hands would not move.

The heat climbed from belly to chest.

The mouth tasted of something bitter.

Someone woke and came near. One of the younger ones in the group. They saw the one's face and stopped. Said something. Two or three words. The words did not reach the one.

The one pointed at the fire.

That was all.

The young one looked at the fire. Picked up branches. Added them. The flames came back.

The one watched this.

Their body tilted. They leaned against the rock. The rock was cold. That coldness alone came through clearly.

The sky grew bright.

Light came sliding down the slope. It moved across the grass and touched the tips of the one's feet.

The one looked there.

Light was falling on the edges of the grass blades. A single bead of morning dew split the light open.

The tending of the fire passed to someone else.

It was some time after that before the strength left the one's body. Still leaning against the rock, they tilted slowly sideways. Someone noticed and moved to hold them. In their arms, the weight of the one grew heavier.

A voice. A child's voice.

The one's eyes remained open, resting in the light.

The throat was dry.

It was always dry, but today there was nothing even when swallowing. The inside of the mouth felt like sand. It was not sand. But it was like sand.

The group walked. The one walked too.

Walking while watching the heels of the mother. The heels were cracked. Soil had worked its way into the cracks. The one's own feet were cracked as well, but there was no looking at them. Only the mother's heels. While watching them, it was possible to walk.

Passing through a place where rocks stood in rows, something brushed the inside of the nose.

The smell of damp earth. But everything around was dry.

The one stopped.

Looked toward the shadow of the rocks. There was nothing. Only shadow.

An adult called out. Not a name. A short sound. The one ran toward it.

At night, the adults gathered and raised their voices. Low voices and high voices mixed together. The meaning was beyond the one's understanding. But the tone of the voices was understood. It was not a good tone.

Beside the one, a child of similar age lay curled in sleep. The next morning, that child did not wake. Someone from the group struck the child's shoulder twice. Then they began to walk ahead.

The one looked back.

Looked back and saw the child.

Then turned forward and walked.

The throat was still dry. The smell at the rocks was not thought of again.

The night the group passed beyond the rocky ground, they came to a place where water was. The adults cried out. The one ran too. Mud-clouded water was scooped up with both hands. It was not cold. It was warm. But it was water.

It was drunk.

For a while, the one remained there, kneeling on the ground.

Stars were in the sky. The one was not looking at them. Looking only at the ground. Watching the drops of water still in the hands be drawn down into the earth.

Kicked a rock. It did not break.

Kicked it again. The toes began to ache. That was all.

The adults of the group were speaking in low voices. It was a circle the one could not enter. From the tone, the one could feel that something was being decided. That it concerned someone. Perhaps, the one thought, it concerned the one.

The one moved away from the circle.

Walked along a slope bare of grass. Fine sand worked into the soles of the feet. It was not removed.

Between two rocks, a single thin plant. Evening light caught the tip of a leaf. The one crouched and looked. Reached out a hand, then stopped. Why the hand stopped, the one could not say.

Stood.

The voices of the adults were still audible.

The one turned away. Walked a little further in the direction opposite the circle. Reached a place where the ground grew hard. Bedrock, exposed. Stood on it.

The soles of the feet were cold.

A feeling came: something below. Not directly below — beyond below.

Crouched, and pressed a palm flat against the surface of the rock. Nothing. Only cold.

Stood. Looked back toward the circle. The voices of the adults had stopped.

The throat was dry.

The tongue clung to the roof of the mouth. When swallowing was attempted, there was nothing. Only sand made a sound inside the mouth.

The one sat with back against the shadow of a rock. Both knees drawn up to the chest. The skin on the soles of the feet had grown so thick that the temperature of the ground could no longer be felt.

The group was moving. An elder walked at the front. A woman carrying a child followed. The men bore loads on their backs. Dried fruit. Hides. Something extracted from broken bones.

The one did not stand.

Still hugging the knees, the one looked at the ground. Cracked earth. A web of fissures spread outward. One finger traced a crack to its end, where it joined another. That crack traced to its end, where it joined yet another. They connected without end.

The sounds of the group grew distant.

The one looked up.

A trail of dust rose at the horizon. The backs of the group wavered in the haze. No one turned to look back.

The one stood. A hand pressed against the rock. The palm was hot. The rock had absorbed all the light of noon.

Walking began. Toward the group. But not quickly.

Midway, the one stopped.

The wind shifted direction. From the north came something that was not the usual dry wind — something faintly different mixed within it. Not the smell of earth. Not grass.

The one turned toward it.

It was to the east. The horizon ended in low hills. What lay beyond them could not be seen.

The nose moved. Once more, searching for the smell. But the wind had stopped.

The one looked at the group. Looked at the eastern hills. Looked at the group.

The feet did not move. For a time, the one simply stood there. Sand struck against the ankles. The throat made its sound again.

In the end, the one walked toward the group.

The hills remained behind.

That night, everyone sat around a fire. The elder said something. It was about which direction to take tomorrow. Voices rose. Hands moved. The one said nothing.

Food was scarce. A hard root was split in two and shared among everyone. The one's portion was a fragment no larger than a thumb. It was chewed. Swallowed. The stomach offered no reply.

That night, a short distance from the group, a young man lay on the ground. He was the one who had been unable to walk for five days. His leg was swollen. Someone had pressed a cloth wrung with water against it, but the water had long since dried.

In the middle of the night, the man stopped moving.

Someone noticed. Called out. Others gathered.

The one watched from nearby. Looked at the man's face. His mouth was slightly open. His eyes were half-closed.

Someone reached down and closed the man's eyes with their hand.

Morning came. The group began to walk. Leaving the man behind.

The one looked back only once, at the last moment.

The man had settled into the color of the ground.

Those left behind did not move.

The one leaned against the rock and looked east. The backs of the group had long since disappeared. Only the dust remained.

Hands rested on knees. The backs of the hands were visible. The bones were visible.

There was a stone. It was picked up. It was heavy. It was set back down.

The red rock was looked at again.