It took many days returning to the shade of the Acacia. Dust fogged the horizon and silt found the folds of fingertips. A branch had fallen, its leaves fermenting in the goats stomach as the timber warmed the warrior’s bones against the night air. A grub crawled out from the severed bough and shrivelled in the amber glow. Regret flicked at the flames then rode the smoke to find the stars. Fitful rest interrupted the fear that all warriors banish with bravery and the thrust of a spear into the dark.