His bones are sharp against the rocks. He’s made this thing his own, and has to see it through. There’s a certain relief in acquiescing to the course that has been chosen for him. “We should skim the fat off the top,” Stevens says. “For cooking.” The captivated men recoil, as if they’d put their feet too close to the fire, suddenly remembered it could burn. Stevens turns his head until it’s nearly resting on Day’s shoulder, a groove he slots into as naturally as if it’s made for him. He says, very low: “We need to get to that diary. Find out what he wrote about us.”
