Two of my tribe sit across the flat stone, and neither one hunts. They face each other and show teeth without biting. This is a test. I have smelled it before, at the edge of a strange fire, when a wanderer wants to join the band and the band is not sure.
The young one sweats. Not from running. From standing still. He has washed the smell of himself away, which is foolish, a hunter should smell like his trail. He wears skins too tight to run in. He has folded his own body small, made his voice soft, laughed when nothing was funny.
He is showing his belly to the older one, again and again, saying without words: I am no threat, I am useful, do not send me back to the cold.
The older one holds a leaf with marks on it. He asks strange things. Where do you see yourself when the moon has turned many times? Why do you want to feed at this fire and not the fire down the hill?
The young one has answers ready, chewed soft beforehand, like meat for a child. He does not mean them. The older one knows he does not mean them. They both pretend. This is the test: not who is strong, but who can lie pleasantly and be believed.
At the end they touch hands and squeeze. No blood is promised. No hunt is planned. The young one walks out lighter and heavier at once, not knowing yet if the fire will take him.
I have seen wolves circle a carcass with more honesty than this.