The Traveler

The morning dew permeates to where the level of discomfort is enough to bring him out of sleep. Behind shuttered eyes, like he has done a thousand times before, reaches for Izzo before the thought of her not being there has his eyelids rolling up in taking in the predawn.

Silhouettes and a deep sky is what he sees. He thinks of Alice then. Of her being cold and hungry and frightened of not knowing where the three are taking her. Of how he is miles from putting a stop to this.

Boots laced and knotted, leaves the bedroll where it is as he looks over the woodpile and then over to where Lilly was sitting. Scooping the wood shavings together into a nice little pile, he goes ahead and clears out the charred remains. Adding the pile of shavings in its place, with stone in hand, the shavings burst into flames. The bad is that everything added is wet. Slow is the way, his hand and eye working together in making sure now is the right time.

His reward is that he is able to add some water to the pan that gets him reaching for the silver tin. A keepsake from sweet Izzo, thinks she would not like it here although the morning would be much nicer if she was by his side. Not to be, he helps himself to a hunk of smoked salmon and a few berries. Soon after, he is able to pour himself a cup under a sky that is mellowing into the light of morning. As it is for now, there is no sound coming from the road.

Patience sets in as his mind tells him to sit back and enjoy the tea made while feeling the dampness being wicked from his clothes.