Chapter 3

I offered her some cattail roots.

They weren’t good—woody and bitter and a little slimy once you got to the center—but they were what I had. I laid a few out on a flat stone between us and backed away, letting her decide.

She reached for one after a pause and bit it like someone who’d eaten worse. Which, I guessed, she probably had.

We ate in silence.

I tried not to watch her too closely, but my eyes kept drifting her way. She sat with her knees drawn up, her back straight, shoulders tense as steel wire. Her eyes darted toward every noise—twigs cracking, leaves rustling—but she never bolted. She was a storm kept just barely in check.

Eventually, I said, “If you know of anything better than these, I’m all ears.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then, just above a whisper: “Pokeweed. If it’s young, it’ll cook down right.”

“Pokeweed?”

She nodded. “Shoots come up in spring. You boil it two, three times. Don’t, it’ll kill you.”

“Well, that’s comforting,” I said, trying for lightness. “Deadly if prepared improperly. Got it.”

She cracked the barest ghost of a smile. It was gone in a flash. But I was sure I’d seen it.

I made a note to look for pokeweed.

The sun dipped behind the trees, and twilight spread over our little camp. I coaxed a fire to life—barely—and she didn’t move away from it. That alone felt significant. She stayed opposite me, a good eight feet away, but she didn’t retreat deeper into the woods.

As the fire settled into a soft crackle, I caught her eyes on me. Not hard, not suspicious—just watching.

“Don’t expect me to talk,” she said softly.

“I won’t.”

She shifted, wrapped her arms around her knees.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” I added gently. “But you don’t have to. Not yet.”

She didn’t answer.

I laid back against my pack, hands behind my head. Stars were pushing through the canopy above, sharp and cold. I heard her move—just a little—maybe stretching out, maybe getting more comfortable. Still across the fire, still wrapped in herself like armor, but closer than before.

Minutes passed. Then hours. The silence between us wasn’t quite so jagged now. Still heavy, still uncertain—but not threatening.

And as I drifted into uneasy sleep, one thought circled in my mind, quiet as breath: She came back.

I woke up to movement.

Nothing loud. Just the rustle of leaves, the sound of someone moving with deliberate care. I blinked, sat up, and squinted through the soft morning light.

She was crouched near the edge of the clearing, one hand brushing through the undergrowth. Her back was to me, her shawl drawn tight against the morning chill. I didn’t say anything—just watched.

Eventually, she returned, dropped a bundle of something leafy on the ground near the fire pit, and sat.

“You were right,” she said, her voice still quiet, still guarded. “You don’t know nothin’.”

I raised an eyebrow, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Good morning to you, too.”

She ignored that. “That’s lamb’s quarters. You can eat it raw if you got to. Better cooked. Ain’t poisonous.”

I leaned forward, inspecting the greens. “How do you know all this?”

She gave me a look—one that said, what kind of question is that?

“You gotta learn or die,” she said. “That simple.”

I nodded, chastened. “Got it.”

She watched as I pulled together a few hot coals from last night’s fire and fed it kindling. I got it going, not gracefully but well enough, and dropped our little harvest into the pan I’d found—some rusted tin thing I’d scavenged two days earlier.

The greens sizzled faintly. The smell was earthy, sharp. I handed her the first cooked handful.

She accepted it with a nod, no thanks, no ceremony. Just practicality.

We ate in silence again. But this time, it felt ... easier. The kind of silence you fall into when there’s nothing to prove. Her eyes wandered while she chewed—watching the trees, tracking the sky. Mine stayed mostly on her.

“You’ve been out here a while,” I said, not really a question.

She shrugged. “Long enough.”

“Alone?”

She didn’t answer. That was fine.

“You said that plant yesterday—pokeweed. You willing to show me what it looks like?”

She looked at me for a second, then stood and motioned. “Come on.”

Just like that. No invitation. No warmth. But not rejection, either.

I followed her through the trees, watching the way she moved—quiet, instinctive, always checking behind her without seeming to.

She pointed at a patch of green sprouting up near a fallen log. “That’s poke. Still young. See the purple tint comin’ in on the stem?”

I nodded, crouched beside her.

“Boil it once, throw the water. Then do it again. You don’t skip that step. Don’t guess.”

I made a mental note like my life depended on it—because it might.

“Thanks,” I said.

She gave the barest nod and turned to head back.

We didn’t talk much the rest of the day, but the work came easier. We moved through the forest like two people who’d done this before, even if we hadn’t. She showed me what was safe, what was dangerous, how to tell when the weather was going to change. I tried not to ask too many questions.

She still didn’t tell me her name. But she walked beside me now, not behind. And that, I thought, was progress.

The rain came in softly at first—just a whisper on the canopy.

I looked up from the tiny fire I was coaxing to life, felt the first few drops on my face, and cursed under my breath. She didn’t flinch. She was sitting a few feet away, arms wrapped around her knees, watching the trees like she always did—like they might betray her if she looked away too long.

“This one’s not passing quick,” I muttered, glancing at the sky. “We need cover.”

She stood without a word and moved toward the rock overhang we’d passed earlier in the day. I followed, clutching what few supplies we had—some tinder, my jacket, the tin cup, and a half-full water flask. She already had a bit of dried grass tucked in her shawl.

The overhang wasn’t much. Maybe three feet deep, five feet wide, but the earth under it was dry. She crouched beneath it, back to the stone, knees drawn up. I hesitated outside until the rain thickened, then ducked in beside her.

The space forced us close. Our knees almost touched.