"No. I don't believe in that kind of thing," says the man who's clearly spent all his daylight hours making the things he has offered correct. But it's true, which matters. Transmuting metaphor into something literal for assembly on a stone altar makes, he gets. But prayer?

"You can't fake any of it," he says, folding his cut thumb inside his fist. Tightening his grip. It stings, but fingers bleed like a motherfucker. Better to do that into his palm than onto his sleeve.

"It makes everything else seem implausible. The rest of it just comes unstuck." Like paint peeling off unsanded plastic.

—Granted, what the fuck he's even accomplished here is less than certain. But sometimes you have to trust the process. Your instincts. Feel your way around in the dark on the assumption that there's a point where it comes together whether you can see it from the beginning or not. That's what makes this so messy.

(It is lonely.)

With a brisk motion, Wake slings the waterskin's strip back across his shoulder. He stuffs the hatchet back into his belt. Apparently, they're finished. Fetching the lantern, he turns his attention to her. For the first time since meeting in the pathway it might be described as undivided.

"There's something I need to do back at the settlement and I get the sense you're not headed back in that direction. But we should talk again."