On the third morning, Dusan was sitting outside the cave, rubbing a stick on a bigger piece of wood. Although making fire before sunrise was mostly hopeless, at least the exercise warmed him up. The air was chill and damp, and sleeping was impossible. Perhaps he could catch a nap in the afternoon.

He saw a movement from the corner of his eyes and turned, startled.

Reijo stood in the cave’s entrance, one hand on its rock wall. He looked around the pre-dawn forest that was gradually coming to life with the first birds’ voices. He looked frailer than before. His bandages had partly slipped, exposing his blood-stained chest.

“Hey,” Dusan said quietly, as if a loud noise could scare him away. “How do you feel?”

Reijo just stood there, ignoring him. Dusan wondered if this was some new, sleep-walking twist in his delirium, but that seemed unlikely. Reijo had drunk water yesterday, and had eaten a bit of the fish, and had seemed more alert on the few occasions he had woken up. He was getting better—or at least that’s what Dusan kept telling himself. Now, Reijo was actually standing on his feet for the first time in days—that had to be a good sign.

Reijo looked up at the gradually brightening sky.

“It’s going to rain,” he said.

“Possibly,” Dusan agreed, although the sky looked perfectly clear to him.

Reijo’s gaze slowly went down to Dusan.

“Why’re you still here?” he said.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Everyone you know is in that village of yours.”

“Not everyone.” Dusan shrugged. “You’re someone I know.”

He had been thinking a lot about his village, about the people he had left there. He missed them already, missed the familiarity and the security of being amongst them. Yet they would see him as an outsider if he came back now, or worse—an enemy. He knew he would see them differently, too. Every time he looked at Reijo, it reminded him of the horrible thing they had done. Good intentions or not, he wasn’t sure he could forgive them.

Especially Mirche. The thoughts of his best friend stabbed him like a knife. Mirche had killed their friendship with that one arrow, and there was no way to undo that.

“You’ll need to go back, eventually,” Reijo said.

“No.” Dusan got up and stretched, looking around, avoiding eye contact. “Are you sure you should stand up for so long? You need to rest. I’ll get you something to eat.” He had to change the topic. He’d dreaded this conversation, the decision that had to be made. He had been thinking about what he was going to do when—if—Reijo got better. He’d had little else to do but to think for the last few days, and the solution, although inevitable, still scared him.

“You’ll need to go back,” Reijo repeated.

“Not really,” Dusan said. “The world is big and there’s plenty of other places to live in.” He glanced at Reijo. “For you, too.”

“Why would you leave home?”

“I’ve already done it, in case you haven’t noticed.” Dusan gestured around. This wasn’t what Reijo meant, though, and he knew it. Living in a forest for a few days was not the same as going away to some unfamiliar place, for good. He had never intended to do that. He had enjoyed the stories that the traveling salesmen spun about the distant lands and their customs and people but going there had never seemed like an option for him. He’d been content with his life in the village.

If they stayed here, though, it was only a matter of time until they were discovered. The people Dusan had considered friends would come for Reijo, and possibly for Dusan himself, intent on finishing what they had started.

He eyed the brightening sky and the trees.

“There’re big cities out there,” he said. “Like, ten times my village, perhaps even bigger; and mountains, and people who look different. There’s much to see and explore. We could go where no one knows us. The salesmen ships come twice a year. They should arrive in a few weeks. We could keep an eye on the shore and ask to join them when they come.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Slowly, Reijo walked over to him. Dusan tensed, ready to catch him if he fainted, but Reijo, despite looking a bit unsteady, seemed to have regained full control of his body. He stopped next to Dusan, then reached out hesitantly and touched his hand. “Do you… feel anything?”

Dusan blinked, focusing on his sensations. All he could feel was the cool of Reijo’s fingertips.

“Just your touch,” he said.

“I’m useless now.” Slowly, Reijo lowered his hand. “I can’t even make you feel anything anymore.”

This was so far from the truth that Dusan felt choked for a moment.

“You make me feel plenty,” he managed at last. “We’re in this together, and that’s final.”