Last night, before I went to bed, I picked up the prehistoric tool. It felt smooth and cold. I sat staring at it before getting into bed. It didn't surprise me that I dreamt about the tundra. My dreams are consistent since I came to The Sick Land.
The tundra was huge and bare. The fire flickered, casting quick shadows over the old woman's face. Without turning to look at me, she spoke. She told me she had once had a buckskin, many winters ago. Her third husband had killed the buck with a single spear wound, and she had skinned it. The buckskin had outlasted her third husband, but had worn in the end. The wound in the skin had pulled and torn and widened, until the buckskin was destroyed. She looked at me fiercely when she finished her story. I opened my mouth to ask what she meant, but the words that came out were meaningless. The old woman looked disappointed and pointed at my empty hands.