He knelt by the survival bag, pulled it open again, and retrieved a dented metal tin and a battered old mug. Then he paused at the door.
He glanced at her--just briefly--and gave the smallest nod.
"Stay close to the fire," he said. "Keep your fingertips moving. Helps the blood return."
A beat.
Then, the ghost of a smile--not full, but warm--touched his lips.
"I'll be right back."
Then he disappeared into the dusk.
She stood alone, the fire crackling at her side, the echo of his voice and heat still wrapped around her. Her arms curled around her stomach, not out of modesty--but to keep something in.
He returned minutes later, stepping back into the hut like the air belonged to him.
In one hand, he carried a pot filled with cold river water and a handful of fresh pine needles. In th
