Lion Head Mesa pull up the intruder by the root of the weed

The midday sun left no shelter for the boy. He lay in the center of the pit with his mouth open, his dry tongue lolling out; dust coated him almost entirely. The spot where he'd pissed along the wall and beneath the visitor's plinth had dried up as if nothing had happened at all; and the Tiger Woman never returned.

He was delirious. Squinting beneath the spotlight of summer sun, suffering the effects of sunstroke—he thought he heard a skittering sound but did not have the energy to even shift an ear.

Toy! New toy! And Legend up here, while he is down there! Drooling and laid out like dying livestock from the plains. Legend laid at the pit with crossed arms and a smile on her face. Loser! Loser! If he was dying, he did not die yet. Should he live, well, she would not know that either. Soaked hides and moss were present to give the boy water, and Legend was not far from them.

He could go a little longer.

A wicked idea within her head, her smile grew wider, childish, if only to reel a reaction from the man, and then, "PBBBBT!" she wriggled her tongue!

His breathing was at a purely autonomic level as he lay there. Someone might have thought he was asleep. Flies buzzed around his body, landing here or there upon his face, and lingered. A buzzard had taken notice of this body and the wolf lingering above it on the ledge, and circled lazily upon the higher, hotter air.

Would it get a meal today?

The sound of the wolf blowing a raspberry earned a crackling grunt. He opens his eyes a sliver and one of the flies lifts and spirals before his lashes, landing further, on his snout.

Drusk lifts from where he's laying—not entirely aware he is doing it—and takes a few steps towards the wall, and sinks to his haunches again, then flattens to his belly in a fresh sprawl.

Maybe, maybe...

Legends head dangled over the edge. He was crawling around. Like a bug. All tiny down there, and wriggling excessively when he tried. The buzzards were starved and sitting about overhead. The flies swarmed, and the scent of death was an awaiting musk of 'when'. 

Her lip pushed into a pout, and her wrists dangled lazily above. Softening eyes, maybe of disappointment before care. There was no telling with her. Sad, bored. A genuine question then asked that had no right to be pure when its nature needed to be sinful. "Are you dying down there?"