In the morning, there are tracks and evidence of fire, though I slept the whole night through. The cold of the evening before has dissipated with the dark, yet the pump will not bring up water. I repeat the motion again and again. None comes.
I wander back to my blanket, but feel no warmth in its embrace. There are no ashes left sleeping in the fire. I swirl the dead things awhile, uncovering something below. It is charred and decorated with crude tool marks. I lift it slowly, uncovering more in the action: bones picked clean.
