Page 78 of Moonless

He’s carried me in his arms before, but from his back I can see where he’s going, and I’d rather not.

“Still haven’t told me where.”

Nothing. He just breathes. Ignore me, then.

We pass the river, and I don’t look at the bank where the wolves went in. He climbs away from the water into trees I don’t know, but he does, and he slows where the ground steepens, then runs again. I learn to duck when he does and lift my feet when the brush gets close.

The sun comes up, then it’s overhead, and he’s still running. I loosen my grip whenever it’s flat enough and rub my fingers against his fur. Coarser than mine was. He’s breathing harder every time I do. That’s not the running.

By the time he stops, my legs are stiff from holding on, and I didn’t even do the running.

He lowers me beside a fallen pine, bending until my feet touch the ground. One hand stays beneath my thigh a little longer than the other, and when he lets go, he puts it on the trunk and stays bent over.

He takes his time, head down, his whole back heaving, and when he finally looks up there’s sweat in the pale fur over his eyes.

I pat the bark next to his hand. “We can sit.”

He shakes his head, unties the sack, and takes out the waterskin.

I take it, but he stays braced against the trunk the whole time I drink. He was breaking trees up that mountain yesterday, and now this. His fingers slide on the bark when he shifts his weight. Sit down, you idiot.

I hold the water out to him.

“What happened at the river?”

He takes it with his right hand.

“The moonbright they put in your arm. Was that what did it?”

He looks at his left forearm, then drinks.

“Yes.”

“It makes you that angry?”

He lowers the skin. “I stop knowing what I’m doing.”

So that’s what that was.

I watch him put the stopper back, and his thumb misses its edge once.

“Does it still hurt?”

“We should go.” He pushes away from the trunk, then pauses with his hand still on it. Sure we should.

“You said you’re strongest at the full moon. So what does the new moon do to you?”

He goes still with the waterskin against his thigh, and his ears go down while he looks past me into the trees.

I wait, and he takes another breath.

“We—”

He stops. I hold out my hand for the skin, but he puts it in the sack himself, and the fastening takes him longer than it should.

He’ll hand me a knife, but he won’t answer that. I thought we were past this.

Fine. I’ll stop asking.