Jean-Paul Sartre In darkness, they crept to the woods, then hiked north for three hours, and made camp. Not hungry, Luka crawled into the sleeping bag that had been Begović's or Armin's or maybe had belonged to the father of the little girl. Off and on, he slept. Every time he woke, the fire was still going, and Tarik was still sitting there, staring into it. When Luka woke to the wan light of early morning, he got up and rolled up his bag. Tarik's was still in a roll, tied to his rucksack. They traveled until midday, and this time when they stopped, Tarik made Luka eat. The smell of the chicken made his stomach turn, but after he forced down a couple bites, his hunger swelled up, and he managed to get down the meat and the quarter loaf of bread Tarik had portioned out to him. The tentative spring warmth had been swallowed up in clouds and a brisk wind, and he wished he'd thought to hunt up a pair of gloves before they'd left. Tarik went off to relieve himself while Luka finished eating cold chicken with numb fingers.
