Qeya River And it all ends with a kiss.

The irony of Anselm’s situation was that by a bizarre twist of fate, a family member he’d long hoped for renunion had been his den-mate the duration of his sickness. But now that the fever was gone, his memory of those hours were hazy: he remembered @Ilse’s presence only as a fellow bunker mate weathering out some sort of injury. He was unaware of Yikaas’ involvement.

Under no delusions that Yikaas was kind, Anselm hadn’t connected his history of cruelty, either. To Anselm the man was simply pragmatic. He did not lie; he wore his hardened skin like a shield for the world to see - there was no disillusionment, no questioning just who Yikaas was under that gruff exterior. He worked with a brutal efficiency to ensure his survival, and that, to Anselm, was admirable.

His mind these days was a jumble of convoluted thoughts. He supposed this out-of-water experience was a result of the hard knock his brain had experienced; maybe the matter up there was residual soup — maybe things had been so sloshed around all that remained of connective tissue was a limp and sodden strand. He wondered — at times with bitterness — if Heda had ever looked for him. He had no idea where Amadeo had dragged him, and no idea how Yikaas had even found him. He supposed he owed the man more than a life debt, and it was this obligation that kept him tethered to Yikaas — now Sun Eater’s — side as the summer whittled away into a sleepy autumn.

Picking his way gingerly across the dried floodplain, Anselm let his mind wander freely. He hoped Ezra and Gideon weren’t too scared — he hoped they were eating okay, and growing strong even though their daddy wasn’t there. And he hoped that they would treasure his memory rather than curse him for his keenly felt absence — their faces bolstered his healing more than resting did.

Hungry but still sore, Anselm parked by the river and listened for any sign of prey.