Day One
"Stop looking at the trees. Look at the ground."
Mei glanced down at her feet, then back up at Marcus with confusion. They stood on the main forest trail, perhaps half a kilometer from the village, in the grey light of early morning.
"I don't understand," she said. "What am I supposed to see?"
"Everything." Marcus knelt and pointed to a patch of disturbed earth beside the trail. "What made this?"
Mei crouched beside him, studying the depression. "An animal?"
"What kind?"
She frowned, her fingers hovering over the track. "I don't know. Something with hooves?"
"Deer. See the split print, the pointed front? That's a doe, maybe 40 kilograms based on the depth and size. Passed through here..." Marcus touched the edge of the track, feeling the slightly crumbled soil, "...within the last six hours. Before dawn."
"How can you possibly know all that from one footprint?"
Marcus stood, brushing dirt from his hands. "Because I pay attention. That's what today is about—not hunting, but noticing. You can't kill what you can't find, and you can't find what you don't know how to see."
They spent the next three hours walking the trails. Marcus pointed out signs Mei had walked past hundreds of times without truly seeing: browse marks on saplings where deer had fed, the distinctive scrapes on tree bark where boar had rubbed, scat in various stages of decomposition that told stories about what had passed through and when.
"You're memorizing all this?" Mei asked at one point, watching him examine a broken branch with intense focus.
"Yes."
"How? There's so much—"
"You just do it. Start with one thing, then another, then another. Eventually you see patterns." He moved to the next marker. "This branch—see how it's broken upward? That's from an animal pushing through, not a branch falling naturally. Height suggests boar, maybe juvenile based on the thickness they could snap."
Mei tried to take mental notes, but Marcus could see her struggling. Normal human memory, he realized. She'd remember the general concepts but not the specific details, not with the crystalline clarity his mind provided.
They didn't carry weapons that day. Didn't set up positions or wait for game. Just walked and observed and learned to see the forest as something other than a wall of green.
When they returned home that evening, Mei looked exhausted.
"Tomorrow," Marcus said, "we start earlier. And bring the spears."
Day Two
Marcus discovered his sister was terrible at spear throwing.
They'd set up a practice area in a small clearing about fifteen minutes from the village—close enough to reach easily, far enough that they wouldn't disturb anyone. Marcus had marked a target on a dead tree trunk, a rough circle of charcoal about 30 centimeters across.
Mei's first throw went wide by nearly two meters.
Her second hit the tree but bounced off at an angle, the shaft not even close to perpendicular.
Her third didn't make it to the tree at all, dropping short and clattering across the ground.
"I don't understand," she said, frustration evident. "I'm stronger than you. Why can't I do this?"
Marcus retrieved the spears—his father's and another borrowed from Zhang Kun's family in exchange for a promise of future meat. "Strength doesn't matter as much as technique. Watch."
He demonstrated again, slowly. The way to grip the shaft, about one-third back from the balance point. The stance, left foot forward, right foot back. The weight transfer from back foot to front. The hip rotation. The arm following through, pointing where you wanted the spear to go.
"It's not about throwing hard," he explained. "It's about throwing right."
Mei tried to copy his movements but her body didn't flow the same way. Her hips stayed square. Her arm pushed instead of whipped. Her follow-through stopped abruptly.
They spent two hours on spear technique. Mei improved marginally—at least now she was hitting the tree most of the time—but Marcus could see she didn't have the instinct for it. Some people did, some didn't. Chen Liang's muscle memory had apparently included spear work. Mei's didn't.
"Let's try something else," Marcus said, pulling out his knife.
He'd brought a rabbit carcass—actually a large rat he'd trapped near the village, but close enough for practice purposes. He showed Mei the same field dressing techniques he'd used on the pig: the initial cut, the careful removal of organs, the separation of useful meat from waste.
Mei's hands were steady and sure. Her cuts were cleaner than his, more precise. She seemed to understand intuitively how much pressure to apply, where to cut, how to work around bone and tissue.
"You're good at this," Marcus observed.
"Mother taught me butchering years ago. We used to get chicken sometimes, and I'd help prepare them." Mei worked as she spoke, her movements growing more confident. "This isn't that different, just larger."
Marcus watched her hands move with practiced efficiency and made a decision. "Knife work is yours. When we hunt together, I'll do the throwing, you do the processing. Play to our strengths."
Mei looked up, blood on her hands, and smiled. "Deal."
They spent the afternoon practicing—Marcus throwing spears until his shoulder ached, Mei working through multiple small carcasses, building speed and confidence. By evening, Marcus's accuracy had improved maybe 10%. Mei could field dress a rabbit-sized animal in under four minutes.
Small progress. But progress nonetheless.
Day Three
They went hunting for real. Set up at the ravine before dawn, positioned behind the boulder Marcus had used before, and waited.
Nothing came.
Three hours of cold and silence, then the growing daylight forced them back. They'd stayed too long, pushing the boundaries of when they should return, and still saw nothing.
"This is boring," Mei whispered as they packed up.
"Most of hunting is boring," Marcus replied. "Waiting is the hardest part."
"How do you stand it? Just sitting there, thinking about nothing?"
Marcus almost laughed. Thinking about nothing—if only. His mind had been running calculations the entire time, analyzing wind patterns and temperature variations and probability distributions for game movement.
"You learn to be patient. Or you fail."
They walked back in silence, and Marcus could feel his sister's disappointment. She'd expected success, the same as he'd gotten on his second attempt. Reality was teaching her what it had taught him—that one success didn't establish a pattern.
Day Four
They tried a different location. The middle trail, leading to the clearings where berry bushes grew. Chen Liang's memories suggested rabbits frequented the area, feeding on the low vegetation.
Marcus brought snares this time, simple wire loops he'd crafted from scavenged metal. Not traditional hunting, but potentially more reliable than spear work for small game.
He showed Mei how to set them—finding the game trails, the narrow paths where rabbits habitually ran, setting the loop at the right height and tension.
"How do you know where to put them?" Mei asked.
"See the droppings? The worn earth? Animals are creatures of habit. They use the same paths over and over."
They set six snares across various trails and returned the next morning to check them.
Empty. Every single one.
"Maybe the rabbits smelled us," Mei suggested.
"Maybe." Though Marcus suspected the issue was more fundamental—his snare technique was probably flawed, the tension wrong or the positioning off by crucial centimeters. More variables he hadn't fully accounted for.
They reset the snares with slight adjustments and tried again the following day.
Still empty.
Day Five
Marcus's spear throwing had improved noticeably. He could hit the charcoal circle on the practice tree maybe 70% of the time now, up from 50% three days ago. The muscle memory was building, his body learning to execute the movements more consistently.
But consistency on a stationary target didn't translate to success on living game.
They'd returned to the ravine that morning, set up in their familiar position, and waited. A young deer had appeared at the stream crossing—perfect target, broadside, maybe 10 meters away.
Marcus's throw sailed half a meter high, missing completely. The deer bolted, and they were left with nothing but frustration.
"You hit the tree every time," Mei said quietly. "Why couldn't you hit the deer?"
"Because the deer moves. Because the pressure is different. Because knowing how to do something in practice doesn't mean you can do it when it matters." Marcus retrieved his spear, examining the shaft for damage. "I rushed. Saw the target, got excited, threw before I was set properly."
"So what do we do?"
"We come back tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that." He met her eyes. "We keep trying until we get it right."
Day Six
The snares finally caught something—a rabbit, young and lean, maybe 1.5 kilograms. Not much meat, but proof the technique could work.
Mei processed it with smooth efficiency, her knife work having improved to the point where she could dress a small animal in under three minutes. They brought it home, and Lin Shu added it to the evening stew, stretching the meat across the whole family.
Their father examined the rabbit and nodded approvingly. "Good, clean work. Keep at it."
Marcus felt a flicker of satisfaction, but it was tempered by the knowledge of how much luck had been involved. Six snares over three days, and only one catch. That was a success rate under 6%. Not sustainable. Not reliable.
They needed to do better.
That evening, Marcus stayed up late analyzing what had worked and what hadn't. The successful snare had been positioned on a trail that showed evidence of very recent use—droppings from that morning, fresh tracks. The others had been on trails that looked well-used but might have been older than he'd judged.
Timing mattered. Current information mattered. His perfect memory of a trail from three days ago was worthless if the game had shifted their patterns since then.
Day Seven
They returned to the ravine at dawn, both of them moving with the practiced quiet they'd developed over the week. Marcus had spent the previous day scouting—actually verifying current conditions this time, not relying purely on memory—and had confirmed fresh pig tracks leading to the water.
They set up in position and waited.
Forty minutes later, two pigs appeared. Young females, traveling together, maybe 35 kilograms each. They moved cautiously to the stream, sniffing the air, alert for danger.
Marcus forced himself to breathe slowly. Not to rush. Not to let excitement override technique.
He waited until both pigs were drinking, heads down, attention divided. Then he rose smoothly, stepped forward, rotated his hips fully, and threw.
The spear flew true. Struck the nearer pig just behind the front leg, penetrating deep into the chest cavity. The animal squealed and staggered. The second pig bolted immediately, crashing through the undergrowth.
Marcus was already moving, knife drawn. The wounded pig made it perhaps three meters before collapsing. He reached it quickly and cut its throat, ending it cleanly.
Silence returned to the forest.
Mei appeared beside him, her own knife ready. "I'll start processing."
They worked together efficiently. Marcus held and positioned while Mei made the cuts, her hands steady and sure. The field dressing took six minutes, significantly faster than Marcus could have managed alone.
The pig went into the pack—lighter than his first kill, but still substantial. Thirty-three kilograms by his estimate, accounting for removed organs.
They were back at the village by mid-morning, the sun warm on their backs, blood on their hands, and meat for their family.
Their father was working the near field when they arrived. He straightened, saw the pack, and walked over to examine their kill.
"Good work," he said after inspecting Mei's clean cuts. Then he looked at both of them seriously. "Seven days of hunting. One rabbit and one pig. That's your success rate—two kills out of fourteen attempts if I'm counting right."
"Yes, Father," Marcus said.
"Two successes doesn't make you hunters. Doesn't mean you're safe or skilled or that you can count on this working." His expression was stern. "It means you got lucky twice. The forest will teach you humility if you forget that."
Marcus nodded. His father was right, of course. Two kills out of fourteen outings was roughly 14% success rate—better than the village's usual hunting parties, but still showing how much failure was part of the process.
"But," Chen Wei continued, his tone softening slightly, "it also means you're learning. Improving. Working together instead of taking foolish risks alone. That deserves recognition."
He clapped Marcus on the shoulder, then Mei's. "Keep at it. Stay careful. And remember—the goal isn't to hunt every day until you die. It's to hunt smart enough that you live to see spring."
They helped their mother prepare the pig that afternoon. Most of the meat went into the smoke box for preservation, but they kept enough for a proper meal that night—the first time the whole family had eaten fresh meat in over a month.
As Marcus sat by the fire that evening, watching his younger brother gnaw on a rib bone with delight, he found his mind running its usual analysis. Seven days of practice. Incremental improvements in tracking, positioning, timing. His spear accuracy had increased approximately 20%. Mei's field dressing speed had improved by roughly 35%. Their coordination as a team had developed measurably.
But fourteen attempts for two kills. That ratio needed improvement.
Next week, they'd need to focus on reading signs better, on distinguishing active trails from old ones. They'd need to experiment with different times of day, different locations. They'd need to—
"Liang."
His mother's voice interrupted his calculations. She was watching him with that knowing expression.
"Stop planning and eat your dinner."
Marcus looked down at the bowl in his hands, at the chunks of meat and vegetables, at food that was actually filling for once. His family was eating because of him and Mei. Because they'd worked together, learned together, failed repeatedly and kept trying.
That was worth something. Not everything—not security or certainty or guaranteed survival. But something.
He took a bite and let himself enjoy it.
Tomorrow, they'd try again. And fail, probably. And learn from the failure. And eventually succeed again.
That was the pattern emerging: effort, failure, adjustment, incremental improvement. Not the dramatic arc of a story, but the slow grinding work of real skill development.
One week down. Winter still approaching. Many more hunts ahead.
But for tonight, they had meat and warmth and family.
For tonight, that was enough.