The weight snores.

It’s Kiddu. She’s lying com­pletely on top of him. Her arms and legs are half-coiled around his body.

He squirms again, and she slides off to the side. He sits up.

They must be in a tent. The wind out­side sighs against lightly flap­ping can­vas. Through an open­ing, Gil can see a faint tri­an­gle of starlight.

He gropes in the dark­ness, feels the cen­tral wooden tent­pole, a bun­dle of robes spread out for bed­ding.

A cold breeze blows in and fresh­ens up his sweaty face. His head aches and throbs. He feels drained, like a dried piece of meat.

From out­side, he hears muf­fled voices.

Pris­on­ers?

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