Seven days in, travel was simultaneously much faster than their usual pace, since they weren't stopping to harvest, and agonizingly slow. It got a little less mind-numbing when they made it out of the plains, but navigating the mountains slowed their progress. And it rained. A lot. A mist of grey rain stuck to their skin and turned the terrain slick, running in rivulets down their legs and filling up their heavy boots.

They were off the highways, on a stretch of the highlighter trail between the roads and a town that marked the halfway point. Kiari's mother had added a tiny note that read 'take the deer paths'. Of which there were about five thousand. Winding through the trees, breaking apart in clearings and re-forming as three new paths on the other side. But the trails were easier to traverse than the rest of the untamed landscape and they all ran the same general direction.

True craned their neck to squint at the clouded sky. Thin, sprinkly rain caught on their eyelashes, forcing them to blink. It was hard to tell what time it was with the sun behind a curtain of gauze, but their stomach said noon.

They tossed their pack under the tree with the widest dry circle around the trunk and scooted under to settle beside it. Relief cramped their sore feet, and they were too tired to mind how the back scratched their back. Pulling out their dried meat, they skimmed the surroundings for Radio.

In spite of their shaky agreement to travel together, it drifted in and out of perception in fields of tall grass and between the tall black trees. True was making a game out of how long they took to spot it. Zero points if it made it to the fireside first.

Scan left, nothing. Scan right, nothing. Not unusual. They tried again, slower, more attentively. Still nothing to the left, but there, downhill and to the right of a fat oak. Or maple, or whatever the hell. Gotcha. They flicked a pine needle at it.

The mass shifted. Huge, black... huger, way too huge. Damn, the bridge of their nose scrunched, not Radio after all.

They watched the bear's rump wobble over the bush, apprehension curdling in their stomach. Setting their lunch to the side, they leaned forward to get a better eye on the surroundings. That bear was a little too close for comfort, although it snuffled farther from them as the second passed. An image of Radio turning into a bear snack made an entrance stage right of their brain. How would they know. It didn't scream. Did it?

Plastic crinkled, sending a thrill of goosebumps up their arm.

Zero points, they thought, relaxing back into the shelter of the tree branches. They bopped Radio without looking. Without thinking. It knew better than to touch their stuff. Their fingers brushed fur. The plaintive yowl of a miffed bear cub right beside their ear shot ice through their veins.

It seemed almost impossible how fast mama bear wheeled around, a snarl curling her muzzle, fangs bared and dripping. True didn't stick around to contemplate the physics of it.

"Why couldn't you have been a bunny?" they hissed as they scrambled from under the tree. Foot slipping. Rain in their eyes. Adrenaline spiked every sense at the rumble of mama bear's bellow and the thunder of her galloping towards them.

Of all the stupid things. They cursed themself out, hurtling fallen trees and dodging upright ones at a dead sprint. Twigs gouged their clothes and bark scraped their skin. Never in a million years could they outrun a bear. They couldn't stop running either. Stop running, die. Keep running, die anyways. Why were those always the choices they got dealt?

Their heavy soles fought for traction on the wet forest floor until, abruptly, it wasn't there.

The forest hadn't thinned out or stopped a significant distance from the edge of the cliff. Instead, the stubborn fir trees had dug their roots down into rocky earth and left nothing but a sharp drop to certain death hidden beyond their branches. True plummeted.

Their ribs hit the ledge hard and scraped all the way up to their armpits. Fingernails split as they dug them into the dirt, desperately trying to keep from slipping off. They probably yelped but they couldn't hear it over the sound of imminent death and their heart thundering in their ears.

"Fuck," they gasped, "fuckfuckfuck." They slipped another inch. Above them, the bear snuffled and snorted.

Which was worse, getting mauled by a bear or falling of the ledge?

They didn't look down, they couldn't. They pressed every square inch of them as tight as physically possible to the face of the cliff. The fall was worse, definitely the fall.

Another slip, miniscule, so their fingers curled into claws, were their only anchor. Suddenly there was no air for their heaving lungs. They dared a peek down. Maybe there was an exposed root, or another ledge, or anything. Anything. Dizzying vertigo slammed into them. Squeezing their eyes shut, they will themself to mould to the cliff face. Fuck, they were really high up.

They braced themself on razor thin footholds and convinced the fingers of their left hand to uproot, one by one. Bear or no bear, they had to get back on the ledge. They got down to the last finger, stretching the other in anticipation of the next step, when the chunk of rock holding their weight from below gave out.

If they'd had any air left they would have screamed. Their right hand—their last anchor—ripped from the ledge and they plunged.

An eternity and less than a second later they jolted to a halt. Two black-clad hands gripped their arm.

Through much heaving and hauling on limbs that felt like rubber, they ended up back on top of the ledge. Hands, knees, solid ground. A scream bubbled to their tongue, and the urge to laugh, and the urge to scream more swelling with it. But they settled for digging their fingers into the dirt until the hysteria passed.

When the need to scream eased off, they stood. Wobbled, sank back to their knees. That was a negative for walking, then. They glanced over at Radio, seated well within arms-reach and flushed from the effort of pulling them off the cliff. It watched them closely, as always.

"I'm not a fan of heights," they said.

Clearing their sore throat, they scraped together the remnants of their wits and forced themself to their feet. It was time to get back to their pack, before another bear cub decided to munch on it.

"What did you do with the bear?" True asked, glimpsing the forest ahead. At least they wouldn't have to worry about getting lost. A path of broken twigs and crushed foliage marked their flight from the bear.

Radio wiggled its fingers.

"That's not really an answer."

That earned them a heavy sigh and a heavier tap on the elbow. Radio held Galya's gun by the barrel, offering it back to them. Oh, good, they were down a bullet. Or several. They decided to leave the matter. Whatever it had done, had worked, they were happy to leave it at that.

It took a while, but eventually the pack came into view. And so did its contents, strewn from the epicenter under the tree and halfway to Timbuktu. So much for a quick lunch. They stalled, surveying the damage. Bit down on a gnarled, hideous feeling that burrowed into their marrow. That was their home. That was all they had in the world.

A feather-light touch pulled them out of the spiral. Not enough to quell the feeling, but it smoothed the gnarls a little, to remember they weren't out here alone.

Radio walked deeper into the wreckage, skimming all the bits of their very private life that had been thrown out in the daylight for anyone to see. It same to a stop, crouched, and resurfaced holding something up. Light glinted off the sewing needle. Good, they were going to need it, judging by the look of everything else. They pinched a dark blue thread from the fringe of their sash and worked it loose.

It took precious time to gather all the scraps and pieces, following scattered trails and scrounging up on branches and under bushes. More time yet to stitch shut the gashes in their bag with sore fingers and a rain slick needle.

"Anything you need..." they hesitated with the word on the tip of their tongue and their tongue poking at the hole where their missing tooth lined up with the cleft in their lip. There were some difficult words in the English language, and they couldn't think of an easier way to say this one.

"Stitched." It came out mangled, and they held up the threaded needle in case Radio had a hard time understanding them. It shook its moppy head and made a motion like it was pushing them away with the back of its hand.

"What is that?" True mimicked the motion. Radio tipped its head in consideration, its fingers hover in the air, playing an imaginary piano. Finally, it reached down and traced a word in the dirt.

Sign.

It waited for True to skim the word, then wiped it away and traced a new one.

No.

It repeated the pushing motion. It added another word below the first.

Yes.

It pointed to the sky, then traced a line down. Yes and no. True copied the motions.

"Is there one for this?" They held up the needle and thread. After some consideration, Radio held its left hand out flat and made as if running the needle of its right hand through its skin.

Yes, no, stitching. True made the motion. An easier word. They tried all the signs again.

"Got any more?"

It shrugged.

"Teach me?" they asked. "I'll trade...earrings?" It was a weak trade, and they knew it, but admittedly they didn't have much to trade. They'd handed over a lot for the map, and lost some to the wildlife. And they didn't know the kind of thing Radio would want. They'd never paid attention to the things it foraged, never seen it inside the Market.

In answer to their offer, it pulled back its hair to show off its unpierced ear. The high collar of its poncho shifted, revealing a glimpse of pink scar. There and gone, Radio smoothing its hair and shirt back in place.

"Teeth?" True tried. Teeth didn't sell great, but Radio seemed strange enough to want them. Cannibalism and all that. Maybe teeth made good snacks. Like extra crunchy popcorn.

No. Hand pushed. It smeared the words on the dirt patch and traced a new one.

Free. The motion it made was a little more complex than the others.

The gnarled feeling crawled back over True's skin, trailing with it the same dull pain under their solar plexus that they had been ignoring since the firs blown-up After Market. Biting their tongue, they stuck the needle in their bag. Shut it. Stood.

"Come on, I don't want to lose any more daylight." They stamped out the word written in the dirt.

That wasn't the way things worked, there was no such thing as getting something for free. Not between strangers. Not even between friends, and True certainly didn't have any of those left. There were only people who wanted to kill them, and people who mostly didn't.

They pulled up their mask. Glancing back at the pine, they saw only forest. The place where Radio had been, now empty.