“Yes.”
“And we have nothing to bring back except bad news and a handful of dust that smells like nothing.”
“Then why return?”
“Because continuing might be stupid.”
“Yes.”
His agreement punches a hole through my argument. I glare at him.
“You’re supposed to say it is not.”
“I do not lie for comfort.”
“Clearly.”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, wings folded tight beneath the leaning rock. In the shade, with stone close around him, he looks less like the open world is grinding against his bones.
I should not notice that but I do.
“The third site is near the quiet place,” he says.
“I know.”
“You warned against it.”
“I know that too.”
“The first two sites failed in ways I do not understand.”
“Yes.”
“The rhythm is repeating.”
“Yes.”
“If we continue, we may find why.”
“If we continue, we may die.”
“Yes.”
The word settles between us. Honest and clean, if cruel.
I wait for him to push. To command. To do the thing strong men always do when they want the world to bend into their preferred shape. He doesn’t. He only watches.
“What?” I ask, quieter.
“You are the route-runner.”
My throat tightens. No. Absolutely not.
“You’re the zemlja tracker.”
“Yes.”
“This is your call.”
