I feed twigs to the smoldering tinder and a tongue of flame hesitantly kisses them. A whisp of smoke stings my eyes and the scent carries the intoxicating prospect of warmth.

I gaze up at the stars in the quiet vault above me. They peer back from a hundred-million miles away. I wonder if the echo of my pulse can reach their ears. I feel its dull thud in the side of my neck. My jaw is tight.

The wind keens across the ridge my body is nestled against. The flame gutters and singes my palms as I shelter it from the night air. I lay a few more sticks on the fire, and they slowly ignite.

My tongue lies thick in my mouth and my throat burns as I try to swallow my thoughts. They tumble about in the wind, teasing the nearby cliffs. I lead them back home, and they dance away again.

I gingerly place a split log alongside the young coals. It begins to warm as they caress its slivers. I withdraw my hand and suppress a shiver in fear of smothering their tryst. The cracked skin along the back of my hand begins to bleed.

The baying of the midnight beasts travels up the nearby cliffs from the valley far below. A faint hint of blood wafts across the low fog through which they stalk. Their lascivious wails rise and fall at the scent.

Another log goes into the pit, but this one is still green and begins to sputter and smoke. The fire dies back to coals. I begin to feed it the last of my twigs with shaking hands in the hope of coaxing it back out.

I shrug deep into my leather coat. My eyes close, and I try to sleep.