He had been going to the river every morning for two weeks.
Not the tributary — the main river, the northern one, the one with the sound that came through the right window. He went early, before the compound's morning rhythm had fully assembled itself, before the briefings and the beta work and the daily choosing that being Marcus Stone in this compound required.
He stood at the bank.
He did not know what he was doing there exactly.
He knew what it felt like. The river's specific continuity — the water going over the stones without requiring anything of him, the sound of it constant in a way that nothing else in his life had ever been constant. The pack bond warm at the edges, the compound's warmth present and not demanding, the territory breathing around him.
He stood.
He thought.
