The tribe gathers, but no one is hunting. They wear their best skins, stiff and pale, skins that would tear on the first thornbush. They sit in rows and face the same way, like a herd waiting for the wolf. There is no wolf. There is only a woman in a white pelt so long it drags the ground behind her, useless for running, useless for cold. She walks slow. She walks toward one man.
I watch for the danger. There is none. This is the strangest thing. The whole tribe holds its breath for a thing that cannot kill them.
An elder speaks over the two. They give each other small circles of metal, too small to eat from, too small to hunt with. The tribe makes water come from their eyes and does not wipe it. They are happy and they leak. I do not understand this leaking.
Then, at last, meat. Fire. The tribe eats together and shows its teeth in the friendly way, and the two who traded circles press their mouths together where all can see. This part I know. This is the claiming. This says: he is mine, she is mine, do not come near.
They dress it in white pelts and small metal and crying. But underneath, it is only two of the tribe choosing to share one fire for the rest of the cold nights.
Good.
A shared fire outlasts a strong one.