I lie on the makeshift fur bed I made last night, resting on my stomach lazily with a good size of the pelt over the top of me, hands crossed under my chin as I watch the early morning birds peck at the scraps I left on my cooking stone. Dancing around and merrily, eating what little I left behind. The fire has long smoldered out, and everything around me is dewy with early morning moisture. Everything still, and peaceful, in the morning glow of a newly rising sun, and oddly still. I made it through another night, and I’m still here, waking in a better mood with every day that pans out.
I didn’t find a cave or shelter last night, so curled up in the bear pelt, which took me a full four days to scrape and clean and dry out in the sun on the hottest rocks I could find. I’m no expert i
