Phoenix Maplewood all those empty rooms

sega dips his head once, slow and sure.

we ate, he says simply. herd moved. kill old, but good yet.

he turns without hurry, motioning with a tilt of his shoulder for the other to follow. the path he takes skirts the ice, winding toward a low drift where snow has been scraped back and the dark shape of a carcass waits, half-covered, scent aged but still clean.

eat what you need, sega adds, glancing back at him. no pressure in it. no counting. winter long. no sense letting meat go to waste.

he stops short of the carcass, giving space, eyes watchful but calm.

you find your strength first, he says.