through the fog.

"Yeah," he says. "Me too."

He doesn't know what comes next. Doesn't know how to build, how to hunt, how to survive in one place instead of always running. But he knows he's tired. He knows this spot feels right.

And he knows he's not alone anymore.

"Okay, Zan." He takes a breath of the cold, wet air. "Let's make this ours."

Sleep without fear.

The thought is so foreign it takes a moment to settle in his mind. He's been moving for so long. Running from things, toward things, through things. The idea of stopping, of choosing a place and defending it—

Zan appears at his side, pressing against his leg.

"What do you think?" he asks. "Should we stay?"

The dog's tail wags, its shell flickering through shades of green and gold that match the morning light filtering

pushes himself up and goes to the river. The fog is cold on his face, damp, carrying the smell of wet stone and growing things. He drinks, splashes water on his neck, tries to shock himself into alertness.

Today he finds food.

He looks back at the overhang, at the flat ledge where he slept, at the rock wall curving protectively overhead.

This could be a home. Not just a place to stop, but a place to stay. Build walls. Make fire. Store food.

remember.

---

Morning comes with fog.

It rolls off the river in thick white sheets, muffling sound, hiding the forest, making the world feel small and close. Zan is already awake, sitting at the edge of the overhang, watching the mist swirl.

His body aches. Every muscle, every joint, every place where bone presses against skin. The bed of leaves helped, but it wasn't enough. He needs real rest. Days of it. Weeks.

He doesn't have weeks.

He

slow and even, its colors dimming to a soft gray that blends with the shadows.

If Zan isn't worried, maybe he shouldn't be either.

He forces himself to relax. The sound fades. The forest settles back into its nighttime chorus of insects and distant calls.

He sleeps with one hand on Zan's shell, ready to run, but for the first time in longer than he can remember, he sleeps deeply.

He doesn't dream, or if he does, he doesn't

position.

"Tomorrow," he tells Zan. "Tomorrow we figure out food."

The dog's eyes are already closing.

He watches the last light fade from the sky, watches the stars emerge one by one in patterns he doesn't recognize. The river sounds different at night—deeper, more rhythmic, almost like breathing.

Something moves in the forest behind him. A crack of branches. A rustle of leaves.

He tenses, but Zan doesn't stir. The dog's breathing stays

stomach has moved past cramping into a dull, persistent ache that he's learned to ignore. But the thought of moving, of leaving this spot, of walking back into the forest where things want him—

Not today.

Today, he drinks water and rests and lets his body remember what it feels like to stop.

Zan crawls into his lap, a warm weight that pins him to the earth. The dog's shell clicks softly as it settles, finding the most comfortable

bed. The motions come automatically, another skill buried in his body that his mind can't quite remember learning. Handful by handful, he builds a pile thick enough to cushion his bones from the stone.

When he's done, he sits with his back against the rock wall and watches the river. The sun is getting lower. The light turns gold, then orange. Shadows stretch across the water like reaching fingers.

He should find food. He knows this. His