RHYS
The quail breasts are small. Less than the meat of one of my thumbs.
But it’s good eating. Some of the best.
I butchered them earlier at the traps so I wouldn’t draw predators this way.
I thread the meat onto makeshift stick spits, then sprinkle it with my precious reserve of salt and pepper. I usually save that for special occasions.
“Apparently, Phoenix, your sister’s special,” I whisper under my breath. Not like he’s haunting me. Never that. But it gets lonely out here.
Sometimes enough that I speak just to hear a voice.
And unlike the rest of the team. Phoenix is the only one who could respond.Theoretically.
He’s never wanted to, though. At least in my experience.
“Prettier than I thought.” The admission feels wrong the second it leaves my mouth. “You’d kill me if you heard that.”
Not really.
But it makes me feel less… guilty. Thinking about him hating me. About him punishing me back.
I finish them with a little fresh sage and a dribble of lard. I could use potatoes. A welcome addition. But these afternoon storms have been more violent than usual. Kept me from a grocery run into town. Instead, I fry eggs in the pan.
“Why all this trouble?” I say to myself a moment before I call for her.
The answer’s simple.
Because she’s someone.
And according to our reckoning earlier, the first someone I’ve seen in a long while apart from locals, the occasional misdirected tourist, and the hunters I host come fall.
I run a hand through my beard, trying to untangle it. My fingers only make it worse. Can’t imagine what I must look like.
Robinson Crusoe.
Worse, I’d imagine.
At least I’m showered from the rain.
Will be tomorrow again, too. Storms like today come through regular, starting in the spring, though usually not so destructive.
Still can’t believe she lost her Jeep that way. We should be able to pull it up with the winch if it hasn’t dropped over the ravine.
We.
Don’t use that word. Not often.
I don’t like it. Because it means someone could get disappointed. Or hurt. It’s too complicated.
All of this is.
“Smells good,” a hard voice says behind me. Hard, but still softer than I’m used to. Trouble, pure and simple.
“Almost done,” I grumble, testy because she’s rushing me now. But I don’t say it. Don’t want to push her. Neither of us needs that. Not today.
Not when my mind’s still trying to sort out the official narrative. What she wants to hear… so that she’ll go away.
