Flycatcher Downs Ring ring, the bartender please?

He took it as a good sign when she started to show some signs of lucidness. Though her sentences were briefer, they directly reference what he had just said. Sriracha encouraged this. Si. Cotillita, he repeated. Unless you have a name, I'm going to call you that. It felt wrong to bestow upon her a name when she must have already had one, but what else was he to call her?

She surged into the stream, and Sriracha only prayed that she wouldn't manage to drown herself in the time that he was gone. Don't drink too fast, you'll puke, he cautioned, though he was sure the warning fell on deaf ears. She drank and drank, until at last his words triggered her interest in food. And then he was off.

Nearly forty-five minutes later, Sriracha returned. He carried a squirrel, who flopped limply between his jaws. He stopped a few feet away from her, and ripped a strip of fur-covered meat from the squirrel. This he set before he, while he withheld the rest of the meat from her. I don't want you to eat this fast. There is plenty of water. Food is a little harder to catch, Sriracha said. He would give her more incrementally.