My stomach staged a percussion solo the moment the suns cleared the treetops. It wasn't subtle—a hollow drumbeat that echoed off the oak walls and reminded me I'd run on fumes for four days. Fire, shelter, even a half‑decent spear—all great. But you can't roast determination.
I logged the dawn temperature on a fresh strip of birch bark—two finger‑widths lower than yesterday—and underlined the entry with shaky charcoal. Mission for today: eat something that doesn't kill me twice.
The red berries from yesterday still glistened on their shrub near the stream, looking exasperatingly edible. I approached like a suspicious cat, plucked two, and rolled them between my fingers. Smooth, fragrant, vaguely cinnamon. I bit down.
Bitterness exploded, followed by a peppery burn that raced to my sinuses. Thirty seconds later I was on my knees, heaving bile into the ferns. Lesson learned. I scraped a big X into the bark of the nearest trunk and spat for emphasis. "Congratulations, Ian. You just invented breakfast‑flavoured self‑loathing."
Water rinsed the taste but not the embarrassment. I needed protein—and a plan that didn't involve Russian‑roulette snacking. That's when I noticed the neat stitch‑marks peppering a sandbar: tiny paired indents with a drag‑stroke at the end. Something hopped. Frequently.
I followed the trail to a burrow network laced through a thicket of blue‑veined grass. Moon‑hares—sleek, dusk‑grey bodies with ears that faintly glowed like backlit parchment. Cute, yes. Also dinner.
Crafting a figure‑four snare from willow switches proved easier than explaining TikTok to my aunt. I set three traps at tunnel mouths, then sharpened a sapling into a makeshift spear and settled in the shadow of a boulder, forcing my breath to match the lazy sway of grass. Patience wasn't a virtue; it was a necessity with a rumbling soundtrack.
First spring. Snap! A hare kicked, screaming like a tiny kettle. I sprinted, heart banging syncopation with its squeals, and hesitated—blade hovering—because the creature's eyes were the colour of morning fog and just as innocent. Survival barked orders; sentiment mumbled objections. One clean thrust, and silence draped the sandbar.
I whispered an awkward apology no one would hear and reset the snare. Fifteen minutes later, its sibling joined the potluck. Two hares: enough meat to quiet rebellion in my gut and leave leftovers for jerky if I played my cards right.
Back at camp I skinned them with the flint knife—handiwork from yesterday's geology tantrum. Warm blood smelled metallic and strangely comforting, as if my body recognised salvation when it dripped over my knuckles. Fat hissed when it met the fire, sending sweet, nutty smoke spiralling into the canopy.
That's when the sky lit up. Turquoise fireflies—larger than any Earth cousin—swarmed the column of scent, wings scattering prisms across the clearing. The effect turned butchery into a stained‑glass cathedral. I half expected an alien choir to kick off a hymn titled Praise the Protein.
I threaded strips of meat onto green twigs, propped them like a teepee over the coals, and rotated them slowly. Grease popped. My mouth watered so hard it hurt. When the first piece slid free, I didn't bother with culinary critique; I inhaled it, burned tongue be damned. Savoury, gamey, faintly sweet—like someone marinated rabbit in maple.
While the second hare roasted, I laid the pelts fur‑down on a flat stone to cool, then pulled out my charcoal stick. New page, new codex entry: a sketch of the lethal berry with a skull‑and‑crossbones, scratchy notes on its aftertaste and effect speed. Beside it, a paw print and ear outline labelled moon‑hare—edible, high fat, glows under dual suns. Last, a doodle of the disco firefly with arrows pointing to heat attraction and possible lantern lens.
By twilight the coals glimmered like buried rubies, my notebook pages fluttered in a smoke‑perfumed breeze, and a comfortable heaviness settled behind my ribs. I banked embers into a clay‑lined pit and tucked two smoked hindquarters into a sling made from pelt strips.
Inside the oak, I lined the fern mattress with fresh fur—instant upgrade from motel to boutique cabin—and let the warmth seep into tired bones. My hands still smelled of iron and cedar. I wasn't proud of the kill, but I wasn't ashamed either. Life here had terms, and I'd just signed the first line in blood and grease.
"Tomorrow," I whispered to the dark, "bigger traps—and maybe a salad that doesn't punch back." The forest answered with distant jackal choruses, but the sound felt different now, less doom, more challenge.
Full belly, warm fire, evolving field guide. Day four ended in smoky triumph. Day five could bring apocalypse, but at least I wouldn't face it on an empty stomach.