* * *
Near dusk, he lay sprawled across a lichen-covered rock beside what was left of the river—a six-foot-wide, fast-moving current that babbled over a bed of colorful stones.
It had been four or five hours since he’d left the alcove, and already the sun was sliding behind the canyon wall on the other side of the stream.
When it disappeared, the temperature plummeted.
He lay there watching the color drain from the sky, curled up against the coming chill, and the grim realization setting in that he wasn’t going to be getting back up.
Turning over onto his side, he tugged the hood over his face.
Shut his eyes.
He was cold, but his clothes were dry, and he was trying to sort through a swarm of thoughts and competing emotions, the exhaustion pushing him toward the edge of delirium, and then suddenly he felt the sun beating down on his hood.
He opened his eyes, sat up.
He was still on that rock beside the stream, only now it was morning, the sun just peeking over the canyon wall at his back.
I slept all night.
He dragged himself over to the stream and drank, the water so cold it made his head ache.
He had a carrot and a few bites of bread, and then struggled onto his feet and took a leak. He felt surprisingly better, the pain in his legs less all-consuming. Almost manageable.
He grabbed his walking stick.