Chapter Three The Northern Waste

"Don't thank me," Jack said, pushing the canteen back into the saddlebag. "If you drop, I have to walk. That's more shame than dying." Old Bill sneezed. The corner of Jack's mouth moved, then settled again. He had learned hunger during the war, but the frontier was not war. In war, at least someone cared enough to kill you. The waste had no such passion. It only waited for thirst, fever, a broken leg, a bad direction, and then it dried a man into a bone no one could name. The first mark on his father's map was the dry river. Jack found it before dusk. The bed was wide and cracked into scales. There was no water, only white fish bones and beetle shells overturned by wind. He followed it west, searching for seasonal pools.