Neville knelt by the hollow tree that had been his refuge, slowly packing his meager supplies into the rabbit-hide bag. The last strips of smoked meat, wrapped in broad leaves. His fruits and tubers, which he had developed a taste for. His knife, flint spearhead, and the coil of rope... each item carefully placed, as if the act of packing could impose order on the wilderness around him.
He hesitated before leaving the bow behind, fingers brushing against its rough curve. Before deciding to leave it behind.
The hollow tree stood silent, its gaping revealing the leaves, fire pit, abandoned bow, and some faulty arrows and on the wall, a sketch of his map. For twenty days, it had been a shelter. A barrier against the wind, the rain, the things that moved in the night.
Neville exhaled, his breath stirring the leaves at his feet. No sentimentality, no grand farewell—just a slow, deliberate nod. Then he turned away.
*********************
When he reached the river...
