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. . . "You didn't have to do that," I say. "Didn't have to do a lot of things," she says. "Don't mean I shouldn'tve." "It meant a lot. Probably a couple of the pack lived through the winter because of you. Probably I did too." She shrugs. "Yeah, whatever." She takes the fish off the fire with fingers hard and calloused, and hands me my share. I juggle it between my fingers to keep them from burning as I lick the delicious juice that's running down my arm, and we settle back to eat. The fish is good, and the fire is friendly. Neither of us likes to talk while we eat. Food is too important, and the fish deserves enough of our respect to give our full attention to eating it. It's only after the last bones are picked clean that we lay back on the grass, moaning with pleasure at the smoke, and the grass, and the fish in our bellies. Talk starts up again slower than before, both of us toying with the idea of an after-lunch nap. I watch her turn a fish bone over in her fingers thoughtfully, and I think about her hands, how sure they are with a knife or a line, how dexterous. "Would you ever want to learn to write?" I ask her. "I could teach you. It isn't hard." She looks at me like I just offered her a smaller life. "Why'd I want that?" she says. "I got a voice. If I wanna talk to someone, I talk to 'em. Words are words, Kiri. Puttin' 'em on paper don't make 'em truer. All it does is take my voice an' press it flat. Jus' leaves it lyin' there on the page with no soul." I guess it's different for me. For me, talking and writing are new things. Exciting. But Zorza's not me, and I'm not Zorza. The fire burns down, and she kicks dirt over it before we part, careful to make sure it's cold and dead. I stand and pick up my basket. "I should get back, Dax will worry." She nods silently, and goes back to her line and her stream. "You take care, Kiri. You take care." K | |