The pre-dawn hours find me still hunched over the smoldering cookfires, my calloused hands mechanically scouring the grime from the night's last rounds of cooking pots and utensils. Fatigue weighs heavily upon me after the relentless cycles of serving, cleaning, stoking the flames anew as Chavo's camp prepared and consumed its nightly feasts.
But I don't allow myself the luxury of rest or reprieve from these menial tasks. Not yet. Every motion, every scrape of steel wool across scorched iron is burned into my awareness with an almost meditative intensity. A ritual, a mantra against the bone-deep exhaustion hazing the edges of my thoughts.
One more pot scoured clean, set aside to dry. Grab the next from the grease-caked pile, dip it into the steaming washbasin, and begin anew. Over and ov
