His breathing is ragged, but steady. I return to staring out at the dark edges of our circle of moonlight. Except for a warm trickle of blood running from my wound, nothing is moving. I should have run. I should have run for the river like the others. I can’t stop searching the woods surrounding us, hoping that I will see someone. But then I dread who that someone might be, and begin to fear any potential movement through the trees. Although after a brief moment of watching and listening, I again wish for anyone to emerge. Yet there is only darkness and the chirping of crickets. The Indian turns his head to look at me. He’s awake. “Are you thirsty?” I ask. The heat is unbearable. If it would just let up a little, I might be able to think straight. I roll over to search for the canteen and am met by a stabbing through my middle so horrible that my stomach rises right into my throat. I can taste the vomit. I stay on my knees, holding it back. Praying for it to pass. Slowly, too slowly, the pressure in my head and chest releases, the nausea falls away, and I’m able to look about for the canteen.
