The hide he lay on had softened with the moisture. He shivered and sat up, instinctively looking for his mother first and the stars second. Perhaps an hour remained until the false dawn—or so he judged. Learning to tell time by the stars took practice. They changed so with the seasons. He rubbed a knuckle in his eye, but couldn't see Mother anywhere. Among the shadows, the sage still bowed under the weight of the meat. Two Smokes lay on the other side of the fire. The bedding the berdache had brought for his mother remained folded, hair side in, against the brush. Little Dancer shivered again, made uneasy by more than the nippy cold in his limbs. The night seemed to hover anxiously, like the voices of the antelope that had called to his mother. He stood, clutching up his robe, and paced the few steps to the sullen glow of last night's fire. Two Smokes lay with his head under a bent arm. The soft breathing of the berdache came as a relief to Little Dancer.
