“Back so soon?"
Kaelen leans against a crooked pine like it dressed him. The ravine wind lifts hair from his brow; the jar—my jar—hangs loose in his hand as if gravity is a story he edits.
“I forgot to say thank you," I reply.
“For what?"
“For the lesson." I tip my head. “Return what you stole and we'll call it even."
He smiles, tired and pleased. “You're persistent."
“I'm busy," I say. “Plague."
“Still there?"
“Still here," I say. “Give me the jar."
He tosses it once and catches. “No."
“Why not?"
“Because you'll walk it into Snowpaw and my people will stay on this side of the ravine and die of pride and fever."
“I offered to treat them at the edge," I say. “You declined."
“They declined," he says. “They don't love charity with a view."
“Then let me—" I stop. This is a loop.
