The ground. The pebbles. The dirt. The mud. You turn your head up. The sky. The sun. You remember everything. It is all new. You turn to your left. Your parents. Their eyes. Why are they not afraid? “Why are you not afraid?” you utter. “Why afraid?” they ask. No word for this. They look away. The routine. The tasks. Survival.

The cave walls. Your back. The ridges of your spine. You turn to your right. The clouds. The moon. Where did you go? What happened? You turn to your left. The glow. The flame. The shadows are shaking. The rocks are marked with color. Everyone else is sleeping. The lookout is not sleeping. You bring your head down. Your knees. The backs of your hands. Your palms. Your legs. You stand up. You walk farther into the cave. The dead boar, inside out. Its foot. Your hand. You grab the boar. You rip a limb off. You lift your hand to the wall. You stretch your fingers. You squeeze the boar limb. Blood sprays onto the back of your hand. You move the limb so blood sprays around your fingers. Ruffling behind you. You turn around. Your mother. Her eyes. She is awake too.