Two people hold each other too long. This is how the tribe says one is going far and may not come back.
I know this hold. It is the hold before the winter walk, before the hunt with too few spears. The big one presses its face into the small one's hair and breathes deep, taking the smell to keep. Smell is the last thing that stays when the body is gone. Smart. I do this too.
Around them the herd flows past, faces closed, dragging little dens on wheels. None of them stop. In my tribe, when one leaves, all watch. Here, only these two see each other. All others are already gone in their spirits, staring at the burning stones in their hands.
A voice comes from the roof, no mouth, and speaks a number. The small one flinches. It is time. The big one lets go too fast, then reaches back, then does not. Walks toward the mouth in the wall that swallows the ones who leave. Does not look back. This is the hardest thing. I have done it. You do not look back because the looking pulls you home and you cannot go home yet.
The small one stands. Watches the mouth. Watches long after the big one is eaten by it. Puts a hand up, flat, to the glass, as if to touch across water it cannot cross.
I understand now. The great birds outside do not hunt these people.
The people feed themselves to the birds, so the birds will carry their loved ones over the far mountains, and bring them back.
A brave trade.
I would not make it.