I didn"t feel I"d slept much, but a groggy sensation, like climbing up out of a well, told me I"d been deeper than I thought. I lay in my sleeping bag, staring at the doll I’d thrown aside last night. It sprawled against the curved, olive green side of the tent, legs pointing in opposite directions. I picked it up and looked at the stone dagger still embedded in its rag-stuffed heart. A tiny tuft of downy feather fluttered in the wake of my breath, attached somehow to the end of the spike, and I realized what the shaft represented.
The doll had been shot in the back with a stone arrow.
The smell of coffee and sausages permeated my tent, and I knew it was time to get going. Glaring at the doll, I crawled from my sleeping bag and pulled on the same pair of jeans I’d worn yesterday, feelin
