After spending another cramped night in the lead-to his first thoughts were to check the pots.
The rest of yesterday went towards the cabin six logs high now. The walls had risen another two courses yesterday before exhaustion had finally beaten his determination. The structure looked more real with each addition—less like a hopeful arrangement of timber and more like something that might actually keep weather out. The notches had locked together perfectly, each joint solid enough that the whole thing barely shifted when he'd tested it.
But the morning chill bit through his ruined t-shirt, and his breath misted in the air. It looked like fall was fast approaching, and winter was coming whether he was ready or not. But then again, this place might not even have seasons. Or maybe he'd landed far enough south that winter would be mild. But Ian couldn't stake his survival on maybes.
The pots. He'd almost forgotten about them in his focus on the walls. Ian crossed the clearing to where he'd left them drying on their flat stones. Only a night has passed since he formed them but maybe they are dry enough? He picked up the largest one carefully, turning it in his hands. The clay had hardened completely, the surface rough under his fingers but solid. No cracks that he could see. No soft spots that would indicate trapped moisture.
He set it down and examined the others. All of them look to be drying evenly, the coils starting to integrate into seamless walls. Ian looked at the pots and decided to give it one more day. Which means today he can start on building a place to fire them.
But firing them meant heat. Serious heat. More than his campfire could provide. The knowledge stirred in his head, summoned by the need—a kiln. He needed a kiln. A structure purpose-built to reach and maintain the temperatures that would transform fragile dried clay into permanent ceramic.
Ian picked up the pole from where it leaned against the cabin wall. The metal warmed immediately to his palm, and he focused on the problem. How to fire pottery. What kind of structure he needed. The temperatures involved.
The green light blazed up the shaft with an intensity that made him squint even in the dim morning light. It washed across the clearing, highlighting materials, painting geometric patterns in the air that showed him exactly what he needed to build. Soon everything from the specific techniques, measurements, the physics of heat retention and even airflow needed was in his head.
A pit kiln. That was what he needed. Simple but effective. A hole in the ground lined with stones to retain heat, with a grate to hold the pots above the fuel, and a dome of clay and sod to trap the heat and channel it upward. The design crystallized in his mind with perfect clarity—depth, width, the angle of the walls, where to position the air intake and exhaust.
Ian's hands were already moving, the pole shifting into a shovel before he consciously decided he needed one. He chose a spot near the cabin but not too close—fire and wooden walls didn't mix well—and drove the blade into the earth.
The digging went fast. Too fast. His shovel cut through soil and roots like they weren't there, each scoop coming up full and clean. The hole deepened with supernatural efficiency—two feet down, then three, the walls sloping slightly inward as the transferred knowledge guided his movements. His muscles felt fresh despite yesterday's labor, despite sleeping cramped in a lean-to, despite the fact that he should be exhausted.
When the pit reached the right depth—three and a half feet, wide enough to hold all five pots with room for heat to circulate—he set the shovel aside and waded back into the river. The stones he needed were specific: flat ones for lining the walls, smaller rounded ones for the base, and several large flat pieces that he could position as a grate.
When he needed to extract larger rocks wedged between boulders the pole became a pry bar. When a stone needed to be broken into a more useful shape it became a hammer. Each transformation was instant, intuitive, responding to his needs before he fully articulated them.
He lined the pit's walls with the flat stones, setting them carefully so they'd retain and reflect heat inward. The base got a layer of smaller rocks for drainage and airflow. Then came the grate—four flat stones positioned across the pit's width, spaced to allow heat to rise while supporting the weight of the pots.
The structure was taking shape, but it wasn't done. He needed clay to seal the gaps between stones, to build up the dome that would trap heat. The riverbank deposit was still there, waiting. Ian made three trips, each time returning with shovel loads of wet clay that should have been impossibly heavy but felt like nothing with the tools help.
He mixed the clay with dried grass and small twigs—the knowledge called it temper, something to prevent cracking as it dried and was heated. His hands worked the mixture until it reached the right consistency, then he began applying it to the kiln. A thick layer between each stone, sealing gaps, creating a continuous surface. The walls grew smoother, more uniform, as he worked his way around the pit.
The dome was trickier. He built a temporary support structure from green branches—something that would burn away during firing—and began layering clay over it in overlapping strips. The dome rose gradually, curving inward until it nearly closed at the top. He left a small opening for exhaust, just large enough that smoke could escape but heat would be retained.
The sun had climbed well above the horizon by the time he stepped back to examine his work. The kiln sat in the clearing like a strange mushroom—maybe four feet across, the dome rising three feet above ground level. Crude, definitely. The surface was rough, showing the marks of his fingers, and the whole thing looked like it might collapse if someone breathed on it wrong.
But the knowledge in his head said it would work. The design was sound. The materials were right. Once the clay dried and hardened, it would hold. The temperatures would build. The pots would fire.
Ian's stomach cramped, reminding him that one fish yesterday wasn't enough to sustain him through another day of labor. He grabbed the pole and headed for the river, his bare foot—he'd long since given up trying to keep track of where his only sock had gone—finding the familiar path through the grass.
The trap sat where he'd left it, wedged between the boulders. Through the woven willows he could see movement. Three fish this time, all of them trapped in the narrow end, their silver scales catching the light as they darted around looking for an exit that didn't exist.
Ian's chest loosened slightly. Three fish meant actual food. Enough to get him through today with something left over, maybe. He waded in, the cold water shocking against his legs like it did every time, and lifted the trap clear. The fish thrashed harder as they left the water, their movements frantic and purposeless.
He carried them to shore and dispatched them one by one with the same needle-point precision the pole had shown him yesterday. Quick. Clean. The twist in his stomach was still there—that uncomfortable awareness that he was ending lives even if they were just fish—but his hands didn't hesitate. The knowledge guided each movement, efficient and practiced.
He cleaned them the same way as yesterday, the blade separating flesh from bone with surgical precision. Six fillets this time, pale pink and glistening. His mouth watered just looking at them.
The fire from yesterday had died to cold ash, but starting a new one was easier now. The bow drill setup was still assembled, and his hands remembered the rhythm. Smoke appeared within seconds, the ember catching in his tinder bundle almost immediately.
Flames caught in the birch bark, and he fed the fire until it was strong enough to cook on. The hot stones sizzled when he laid the fillets across them, and the smell of cooking fish filled the clearing again. His stomach clenched with anticipation as he watched the flesh turn from translucent to opaque.
He ate all six fillets without pause, barely letting them cool enough not to burn his mouth. The richness of the fish made his head swim slightly. When he finished, his fingers were slick with grease and his stomach finally felt genuinely full instead of just less empty.
Ian wiped his hands on his jeans and stared at the fire. The fish trap would keep producing, but one or two fish a day wasn't enough. Not if he was going to keep working at the pace the pole enabled. He needed more protein. More fat. His body was burning through calories faster than berries and small fish could replace them.
Which meant he needed to hunt. Actually hunt. Find whatever animals lived in this forest and figure out how to trap them. The pelts would be useful too—his clothes were dissolving more each day, and winter was coming whether he was ready or not.
The clearing felt secure. The cabin walls were rising, the kiln was built, the fire was contained. But he had no idea what else was out here. What animals existed beyond fish and whatever had made those sounds his first night. The forest could have rabbits, deer, or things that didn't exist in the world he'd left behind.
He looked at the pole resting against his knee. If he got lost, the thing could probably help him find his way back. It had shown him how to build, how to make fire, how to identify safe food. Navigation seemed well within its capabilities.
Ian stood, his legs protesting slightly despite the pole's assistance making most tasks effortless. The fire could die on its own—he wasn't leaving for that long. Just a quick scout to see what tracks he could find, what trails the animals used. The knowledge was already stirring in his head, waiting to be called upon. Tracking. Trap placement. Reading signs.
He picked up the pole and headed toward the tree line opposite the river. The forest here was denser than the section he'd first stumbled through, the underbrush thick with ferns and low bushes that caught at his jeans. His bare foot found every sharp stick and hidden rock, but he'd gotten used to the discomfort.
The canopy closed overhead, filtering the morning light into shafts that painted the forest floor in alternating strips of brightness and shadow. Ian moved slowly, his eyes scanning the ground as he got better and better at tracking the longer he allowed the knowledge to be fed to him.
There! A deer trail, the earth packed hard from repeated use, winding between the trees toward a section of forest he couldn't see from here. Scratches on a tree trunk about chest height—territorial marking from something with claws. A depression in the leaves where something had bedded down, the vegetation still flattened.
He knew what to look for now the spacing showing gait, the sharpness of edges revealing how recent they were. Where animals would travel—game trails following the path of least resistance, connecting water sources to feeding areas. What sign to look for—scat, fur caught on branches, disturbed vegetation.
Ian approached the deer trail, crouching to examine it more closely. The tracks were clear in the soft earth—cloven hooves, fairly large, heading deeper into the forest. Fresh, maybe from this morning. The edges were still sharp, not yet softened by time or weather.
He stood and followed the trail, the pole solid in his hand. The path wound between massive oaks and through sections of dense undergrowth, always taking the easiest route. His transferred knowledge told him this was a well-established trail, used regularly, probably leading to a water source or feeding area.
The forest sounds surrounded him—birds he still couldn't identify, the rustle of small things in the underbrush, wind moving through the canopy. Nothing threatening. Nothing that made his instincts scream danger. Just the ambient noise of a living ecosystem going about its business.
A flash of movement caught his eye. Ian froze, his grip tightening on the pole. Through the trees ahead, maybe fifty yards out, something was moving. Large. Four-legged. His heart kicked against his ribs as the shape resolved into clarity.
A deer. An actual deer, not some mutated forest creature or fantasy animal. It was grazing in a small clearing where sunlight broke through the canopy, its head down, completely unaware of his presence. The coat was reddish-brown, and he could see the white tail flicking occasionally at flies.
Ian's breath caught. Meat. That deer represented weeks of food if he could bring it down. Protein and fat and hide for clothing. His stomach clenched with want so intense it was almost painful.
But he had no way to kill it from this distance. No bow, no spear, nothing but a pole that could transform into hand tools. Could it become a spear? Something he could throw? He focused on the need, imagining a projectile weapon, something with range.
The pole shifted in his hands.
The transformation was different this time—more dramatic. The shaft elongated, stretching to nearly six feet, the metal thinning slightly to maintain balance. One end tapered to a wicked point, leaf-shaped and sharp enough that Ian instinctively adjusted his grip away from it. The other end formed a subtle counterweight, the whole thing perfectly balanced for throwing.
A spear. The pole had become a spear.
And with the transformation came the knowledge, flooding into his mind like all the other skills the pole had gifted him. Grip placement—one hand forward for guidance, one back for power. Foot positioning—left foot forward as he was right-handed, weight distributed for explosive movement. The throw itself—a fluid motion that started in the legs, transferred through the hips and torso, released through the arm at precisely the right moment. Target selection—where to aim on a deer to ensure a clean kill, which angle would penetrate vital organs.
Ian's hands adjusted their position without conscious thought, settling into the grip the knowledge demanded. His breathing slowed. The deer was still grazing, maybe fifty yards away, completely oblivious. Too far for a throw. He needed to get closer.
He moved with a care that surprised him, each step placed deliberately on solid ground instead of dry leaves or twigs. The spear balanced in his hands, its weight negligible despite its size. His bare foot found purchase on moss-covered stones, avoiding the detritus that would crack and snap under pressure. The transferred knowledge guided him—how to move through forest without sound, how to use available cover, how to read the wind direction so his scent wouldn't carry.
Thirty yards. The deer's head came up, ears swiveling. Ian froze mid-step, his body locked in place, barely breathing. The deer looked around, its dark eyes scanning the forest. Seconds stretched. Ian's leg started to tremble from holding the awkward position, but he didn't move. Didn't breathe.
The deer's head dropped back to grazing.
Ian continued forward. Twenty-five yards. Twenty. Close enough now that he could see the individual hairs of its coat, the way its ribs expanded with each breath. His heart hammered against his ribs, adrenaline making his hands shake slightly around the spear's shaft.
This was close enough. Had to be. The knowledge in his head said twenty yards was optimal—close enough for accuracy, far enough that the deer might not bolt before he released.
Ian settled into the throwing stance. Left foot forward. Weight on his back foot. Spear positioned along his shoulder, the point aimed at the deer's chest just behind the front leg. Where the heart and lungs lived. Where a hit would drop it fast.
His hands knew what to do. His body knew the motion. But his mind hesitated, some part of him that was still the guy from the apartment, the guy who'd never killed anything larger than a spider, screaming that this was wrong. That he couldn't do this. That watching something die by his hand was different from dispatching fish that were already trapped.
The deer took a step, moving slightly away. In seconds it would be behind a tree, the shot blocked, and he'd lose his chance.
Ian threw.
The motion was fluid, perfect, his body executing what the knowledge demanded without his conscious mind interfering. The spear left his hand with force that surprised him, cutting through the air in a straight line. The leaf-shaped point caught the light for a fraction of a second.
Then it hit.
The deer's head snapped up, its eyes going wide. It took one stumbling step, then another, before its front legs buckled. The spear had struck exactly where he'd aimed—behind the front leg, angled to penetrate deep into the chest cavity. The deer collapsed onto its side, legs kicking once, twice, then going still.
Ian stood frozen, his throwing arm still extended, staring at what he'd done. The forest had gone quiet. Even the birds had stopped their calls. The only sound was his own breathing, fast and shallow, and the blood rushing in his ears.
He'd killed it. Actually killed it. That deer had been alive thirty seconds ago, grazing and existing, and now it was meat because he'd needed food.
The weight of it hit him like a physical blow. His legs felt shaky as he crossed the distance to where the deer lay. The spear protruded from its chest, the metal shaft dark with blood. The deer's eye was open but unseeing, glazed over in a way that made his stomach twist.
But underneath the discomfort was something else. Relief. Triumph, even. He'd done it. He'd hunted and killed something that would keep him fed for weeks if he could preserve it. His body would get the protein and fat it was craving. He could tan the hide, make clothing that would last through winter. This one deer represented survival in a way the fish trap never could.
Ian knelt beside the body and wrapped his hands around the spear's shaft. The metal was slick with blood, warm to the touch. He pulled, and the spear came free with a wet sound that made his gorge rise. More blood followed, soaking into the ground, the metallic smell thick enough to taste.
The spear shifted in his hands, returning to its original pole form. The blood vanished with the transformation, the metal clean and unblemished like the kill had never happened. Ian stared at it for a long moment before setting it aside and focusing on the deer.
He needed to field dress it. The knowledge was already there, waiting. If he left the guts in, the meat would spoil. Bacteria from the digestive tract would contaminate everything, turning what should be food into rot. He had to open it up, remove the organs, get it back to camp where he could properly butcher and preserve it.
The pole became a knife, thin-bladed and razor-sharp, before he consciously decided he needed one. Ian made the first cut carefully—a shallow line from the sternum down to the pelvis, just deep enough to open the hide without puncturing the stomach. The knowledge guided his hands, showing him where to cut, how much pressure to apply. Steam rose from the opening as the deer's internal heat met the cool morning air.
The organs came out in stages. Heart and lungs first, still connected, surprisingly heavy in his hands. The liver next, dark and dense. The intestines required more care—one wrong move and he'd contaminate everything. His fingers worked with precision he didn't possess an hour ago, separating membrane, cutting connective tissue, pulling everything free until the body cavity was empty.
He set the organs aside—some were edible, the knowledge told him, good sources of nutrients he'd need. The rest would go back to the forest, feed the scavengers, return to the cycle. Nothing wasted.
But the deer itself was dead weight, easily a hundred and fifty pounds of meat and bone and hide. Too heavy to carry in one trip, maybe too heavy to carry at all. Ian stood, wiping his bloody hands on his already-ruined jeans, and looked at the distance between here and camp. Half a mile, maybe more, through dense forest with no clear path.
The pole warmed in his grip. He focused on the problem—needing to move something heavy, needing to get this deer back to the clearing. The green light blazed, and knowledge flooded in. A travois. Two long poles lashed together with crossbeams, dragged behind him like a sled. The design was simple, efficient, something humans had been using for thousands of years.
The pole became an axe, and he felled two young saplings with a dozen strokes. Stripped them clean. Lashed them together with strips of bark twisted into cordage. Laid the deer across the platform he'd created, securing it with more cordage so it wouldn't shift during transport.
When he lifted the travois's trailing ends, the weight was there but manageable. The pole's assistance again, making something that should have been impossible merely difficult. His shoulders took the strain as he started back toward camp, the travois dragging behind him, leaving a trail through the undergrowth.
The journey back took longer than the stalk had. The travois caught on roots and low branches, forcing him to stop and maneuver around obstacles. His shoulders burned despite the pole's help, and sweat soaked through his shirt even in the cool morning air. But he kept moving, one step at a time, the clearing growing closer with each labored breath.
When he finally broke through the tree line into his clearing, his legs were shaking and his lungs burned. The cabin walls stood solid, six logs high. The kiln sat waiting for its first firing. The fire from breakfast had died to ash. Everything exactly as he'd left it, but now he had a deer lying on the travois behind him.
Ian dragged the travois to a clear section of ground near the cabin and let the trailing ends drop. His shoulders screamed in relief. The deer lay on its side, the hide already starting to stiffen in the cooling air. He needed to work fast. The knowledge was specific about that—the longer he waited, the harder everything would become.
The pole shifted into a skinning knife, the blade curved and wickedly sharp. Ian knelt beside the deer and made the first cut at the rear legs, slicing through the hide in a circle just above the hooves. Then up the inside of each leg, meeting at the pelvis. The hide peeled away more easily than he expected, separating from the muscle with only occasional resistance where connective tissue held too tight.
He worked methodically, the knife slicing through membrane, his free hand pulling the hide back as he went. The skin came away in one piece, inside-out, the fur on the outside and the pale flesh-side exposed. When he reached the neck, he severed it completely, and the entire hide pulled free—a complete pelt, bloodied but intact.
Ian spread it out on the ground, flesh-side up, and examined it. Maybe four feet by three feet, thick and warm. This would make clothing. Boots, maybe. Something better than the disintegrating jeans and single-season t-shirt he was destroying day by day. But first it needed to be cleaned, scraped, treated. The knowledge was there, waiting—how to flesh a hide, how to tan it with the deer's own brain tissue, how to work it until it was supple enough to sew.
Later. That was a project for later. Right now he had a skinned deer carcass lying in his clearing, and the meat wouldn't keep forever.
The pole became a cleaver, heavy and broad-bladed. Ian positioned himself at the shoulder joint and brought it down with force. The blade cut through muscle and ligament, separating the front leg from the body. Three more strikes and he had all four legs detached, each one a substantial piece of meat wrapped around bone.
The backstrap came next—those long muscles that ran along either side of the spine. The knife became thin and precise, following the contour of the ribs, separating the meat from bone with surgical accuracy. The cuts were clean, efficient, wasting nothing. Each backstrap was maybe three pounds of prime meat, tender and lean.
He worked down the carcass systematically. The ribs required the cleaver again, chopping through bone to create manageable sections. The neck was dense muscle, tough but usable. The shanks from the lower legs would make good stew meat once broken down. Even the scraps clinging to the skeleton had value—he could render them for fat, make broth from the bones.
By the time he'd finished the initial butchering, the sun was aiming to dip behind the horizan. Pieces of deer were spread across the clearing in neat piles. Ian stared at the array of meat spread across his clearing. Too much to eat fresh. Way too much. The flies were already starting to circle, drawn by the blood and exposed flesh. If he didn't do something soon, most of it would rot before he could use it.
Jerky. The word surfaced with immediate clarity, and the pole warmed in his hand like it had been waiting for him to figure it out. He focused on the need—preserving meat, making it last through weeks or months—and the green light erupted up the shaft.
The knowledge flooded in. Thin slices, cut against the grain. Salt if he had it, but smoke would work on its own. Low heat over many hours, drying the meat slowly until all moisture was gone and bacteria couldn't take hold. The process crystallized in his mind, complete with the rack design he'd need, the ideal wood for smoking, the temperature range that would preserve without cooking.
The light faded. Ian looked at the fire pit where he'd cooked breakfast, then at the pile of wood he'd gathered yesterday. Not enough. He'd need a lot more fuel to keep a smoking fire going all afternoon and into the night.
The pole became an axe, and he headed back into the forest. The work went fast—too fast, his blade biting through dead branches and fallen timber like the wood was rotten. He dragged armload after armload back to the clearing, stacking it near the fire pit until he had enough to last through the night.
The smoking rack came next. More saplings cut and stripped, lashed together into a frame that would sit above the fire. The design was simple but functional—horizontal bars spaced close enough that thin strips of meat wouldn't fall through, positioned high enough that flames wouldn't touch them directly.
Ian set the frame aside and turned to the meat. The backstraps would work best for jerky—lean muscle without much fat to go rancid. The pole became a knife, thin-bladed and precise, and he started slicing. Each cut was maybe a quarter-inch thick, following the grain of the muscle. The strips came away clean and uniform, his hands moving with that unsettling confidence the pole always gave him.
He worked through both backstraps, then moved to the haunches, carving away the larger muscle groups and slicing those too. The pile of strips grew, each one draped across the smoking rack as he finished it. By the time he'd processed everything suitable for jerky, the rack was covered in overlapping strips of dark red meat.
The fire needed to be different from his cooking fires. Lower. Smokier. The knowledge was specific about that—too much heat and the meat would cook instead of dry, too little and it wouldn't preserve properly. Ian built up the fire slowly, using green wood that would smolder rather than blaze. Oak and hickory from the forest edge, still damp enough to produce thick smoke.
He positioned the rack over the fire, adjusting the height until the heat felt right against his palm. Not hot enough to burn, but warm enough that he could feel it clearly. The smoke rose in lazy columns, wrapping around the meat strips, turning them gray almost immediately.
Ian sat back and watched the smoke curl upward. The smell was incredible—wood smoke and meat, primal and satisfying in a way that made his mouth water despite having eaten fish for breakfast. .
But not all the meat could become jerky. Some of it was too fatty, some too full of connective tissue. And he was hungry again despite the fish—his body burning through calories faster than he could replace them. The ribs sat in a neat pile, each section thick with meat between the bones. Those would be good tonight. Roasted over the fire, the fat rendering out and crisping the outside while the inside stayed tender.
The pole became a spit—a long metal rod with a crank mechanism at one end. Ian speared the largest section of ribs onto it and positioned it over a separate section of the fire, away from where the jerky was smoking. The crank let him rotate the meat slowly, ensuring even cooking, the fat dripping into the flames and sending up bursts of aromatic smoke.
The afternoon wore on. Ian tended both fires, feeding the smoking fire with more green wood when the smoke started to thin, rotating the ribs every few minutes. The meat on the rack was already starting to change—the surface drying, darkening, the moisture evaporating in visible wisps. The ribs browned gradually, the smell intensifying until his stomach was cramping with anticipation.
The sun touched the horizon, painting the clearing in orange and gold. The jerky strips had shrunk noticeably, the meat firm to the touch but still pliable. Not done yet. The knowledge said they needed several more hours, maybe through the night, before they'd be fully preserved.
But the ribs were ready. Ian pulled the spit from the fire and examined his work. The meat had crisped beautifully, the fat rendered to a golden brown, the bones showing through where the meat had shrunk during cooking. He set the spit across two stones to keep it off the ground and grabbed the pole.
It became a knife, and he carved away a section of rib. The meat separated from the bone easily, steaming in the cool evening air. He brought it to his mouth and bit down.
The flavor exploded across his tongue. Rich. Fatty. The smoke had penetrated deep into the meat, and the char on the outside added a bitterness that balanced the richness perfectly. He'd never tasted anything this good. Not in any restaurant, not in any home-cooked meal. This was meat he'd hunted himself, butchered himself, cooked over a fire he'd built with his own hands.
He ate half the ribs before his body finally signaled it had enough. His hands were slick with grease, his face probably smeared with it too, but he didn't care. The hollow ache in his stomach had transformed into genuine satisfaction—fullness that went beyond just not being hungry anymore.
Ian looked around the clearing as he cleaned up. The cabin walls caught the last rays of sunlight, six logs high and solid. The kiln sat waiting for tomorrow's firing. The smoking rack held strips of meat that would keep him fed for weeks. A deer hide lay stretched on the ground, ready to be worked into something useful.
He'd done this. All of it. In less than a week he'd gone from waking up confused and terrified to building shelter, making fire, hunting his own food. The pole had made it possible, sure—without it he'd probably be dead or dying—but his hands had done the work. His sweat had fallen on these structures.
Something in his chest loosened slightly. Not quite contentment, but close. A feeling he couldn't remember having in the apartment with its water-stained ceiling and broken window seal. Back there he'd been existing, not living. Going through motions, collecting a paycheck, falling asleep to the sound of sirens and arguments through thin walls.
Here he was... what? Surviving? No, more than that. Building something. Creating something permanent with his own hands instead of just consuming what others made.
The thought felt dangerous. Like admitting it might trap him here, might mean accepting he'd never find his way back. His jaw tightened and he pushed the feeling away. He had the pole. That was what mattered. Without it he'd be screwed. This wasn't about enjoying himself, it was about not dying in the woods like an idiot.
He didn't have time to worry about what any of it meant anyway.
Ian stood and checked the smoking fire. The flames had died to coals, the wood smoldering perfectly, producing thick columns of smoke that wrapped around the meat. The strips had darkened further, their surfaces dry to the touch but still flexible when he pressed them. They needed more time. Hours more.
He fed the fire carefully, adding more green wood to keep the smoke thick. The sun had set completely now, the clearing lit only by firelight that painted everything in shifting orange and shadow. The temperature was dropping fast, that autumn chill that promised winter wasn't far behind.
He started checking each strip. The ones on the edges were drying faster than the center pieces—the smoke wasn't circulating evenly. He used the pole as a hook, rotating the rack slightly, redistributing the strips so they'd all finish at roughly the same time.
The smell was incredible. Smoke and meat and wood, mixing with the pine scent from the cabin logs and the earth smell of the clearing. His stomach was full but his mouth still watered. Some primitive part of his brain recognized this as success, as survival, as the kind of abundance that meant he'd make it through another day.
Hours crawled past. Ian fed the smoking fire periodically, adjusted the meat, tended his small warming fire inside the cabin walls. The stars came out overhead, more of them than he'd ever seen in the city, so many they blurred together into a luminous haze. No moon tonight—just stars and firelight and the darkness of the night kept him company as the jerky were soon done, and him along with them as he soon found sleep.