The tribe gathers in a field with no meat.
I count more people than there are people. They walk toward one place, all of them, the way animals walk toward water, but there is no water. There is a great cliff made by men, and on the cliff, small figures. The small figures make thunder. The thunder has a heartbeat. It goes under my feet and into my chest and tells my blood when to move.
I look for the fire. There is no fire. But the sky above the cliff bleeds red, then green, then white, colors I have only seen in poison and in dying. Light that burns nothing. Light with no warmth. I do not trust it, so I watch it the whole time, which I think is the point.
The tribe does not hunt. The tribe does not sleep. They lift their arms to the thunder-makers the way I lift mine to the sun after a long dark. They put their weight on strangers' shoulders. They scream and no one comes to see who is hurt, because no one is hurt, they only need the scream to leave them.
They eat standing up. Bad meat, wrapped in soft bread, held in one hand. They pay shells for water that any river gives for free. This part I do not understand.
But when the thunder stops and the crowd makes one long low sound, all of them at once, wanting more, I understand. This is the old sound. This is the pack calling the pack.
Verdict: no fire, no kill, no danger. And still the whole tribe came running. Good. A tribe should learn to gather for the joy, before the day it must gather for the wolf.