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I stay where I am until the fish is gone, because he’d let the stew boil dry. Then I brush off my shirt and go back in.

Rauk’s awake and sitting up when I get back. “Have you eaten?”

“Fish, out by the washing. Have you?”

He reaches for the water instead of answering.

I take him some fish and sit on the hearthstone while he eats.

Afterward he just sits there with his eyes shut, holding himself up with a hand flat on the bedding. If he goes over, I’m not catching him. I couldn’t.

In the afternoon I go around the shoulder of rock to the herb ledge, the same one I picked from for the fish, and cut a small bunch. The little knife’s good for this. The path keeps going down past the herbs and into the trees. That’s as far as I go.

Between the wood, the washing, and keeping the pot from boiling dry, I’ve been through that passage so many times I know exactly where to turn my hip. The shirt still catches on the same bit of rock. It gets me again on the last trip in with the dry cloths, and I have to stop and pick it loose.

“Oh, let go, you bastard.”

“Lift the hem.” His voice comes from around the bend. I look back, and it is the hem.

“I was talking to the rock.”

“I heard.”

I lift the hem and come through with the cloths against my chest. He’s sitting up again, watching the opening.

“Very helpful, lying there criticizing.”

“You told me to.”

I put the cloths on their shelf and let him have that one.

The slab’s still standing open out there. He hasn’t said a word about shutting it tonight, and I’m not bringing it up, because he’d get up and try. Nobody’s found the way in so far.

By evening the meat falls apart when I push on it with the spoon. About time. Rauk’s moved onto his hearthstone with a folded fur behind his back, and he leans on the wall and watches me rinse the potatoes I found below the lower path a few days ago.

I bring over enough for the stew, plus a couple of roots and the herbs.

My good hand aches all the way up to the elbow when I put the bowl down. Stupid shoulder. I shake my fingers out and reach for my knife.

Rauk’s hand comes down next to the bowl. “Leave those.”

“They’re for supper.”

“I’ll cut them.” He turns his hand over, talon up.

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I’ve rested. You’ve done the work. Let me finish the food.”

He holds his hand out for the bowl and keeps it there.

At least he’s sitting. I hand it over and slide a wooden plate onto his knees. He pulls the bowl in against his hip, and my knife stays in its case.

There’s room next to him on the stone, so I sit there rubbing my sore palm while he picks up a potato.

He holds it against his thigh with his bad hand and puts one talon straight through the middle, then through one of the halves. The other half goes on the plate as it is.

I pick it up.