In a display of power, she ignites a sharp line of pain across my chest with her weapon, making me grimace and gasp; the material of my clothing sticks to my blistered skin. Before I can swat away or grab it, the provocation is gone. The woman, quick and adept, sounds satisfied that I cannot challenge her in close proximity nor when given a chance. She makes it clear that I am at her mercy.  

What she has said reveals her to be alone as much as I am and in nearly as much desperate straits; I store away the tidbit and that I wasn’t an intended target of hers. She is lost as I am and contrary to my initial assumption, she isn’t a native to the lands; am I? There is a whisper of an idea, misty and teasingly out of reach, about our connection together.

She places something beside me and from the long narrow impact it makes on the ground, a spear appears in my mind. She is sure and arrogant that I am unable to use it against her or I wonder if  she may have lent the weapon to me for my own protection. I mutter an assent to stay put but fatigue and weakness congeal the words into a muffled noise. The safety of company and the predictable forest sounds lull me into sitting down, lying on my back, and going to sleep, but I don’t want to let my guard down thus exposed, so, with wearisome effort, I busy myself. 

As she climbs the tree, I run my hands gingerly along myself trying to determine what clothing I am wearing and so find out a bit of how I got here. It is long sleeved and trousered as one suit and a zip runs through the middle to end near my belly button. I feel the breast pockets and I reach inside each to pull out a small box. I finger the dimensions. It is about the length of my forefinger, the width of a first knuckle, and owns a rough strip on one side. The slits outlined on the ends suggest I can open it. I try to thumb it open from the topside but it doesn’t yield; I push it lengthways and it slides out easily. Inside, the contents feel rough-hewn, like a bundle, and further investigation nets me individual sticks of some kind. I twirl one carefully between my thumb and finger, feeling its brittleness, and the thin stick ends on a frightening tip that causes me to drop it. 

I remember a snapshot of myself squatting on a dirty wooden floor, breathing in sunlit golden dust in the still air. Cobwebs and grimy windows and scant old furniture remain in the room; I feel like a mischievous visitor. I am holding the same stick, sturdy and unwieldy in my little fingers, its bulky container in my other hand, a sense of excitement bubbles in me, and I hear somebody with a young familiar voice - a haunting echo - egg me on, “I wanna see - “ 

I snap open my eyes and the sunlight flash blinds me. I stumble backwards and trip onto the forest ground. The box falls from my hand. She rushes down the tree and lands with a loud thud. Heart pounding and heaving, I scramble further away from the matchbox as if it can kill me of its own accord. I don’t hear what she says. The world sways in my head, making me feel dizzy and nauseated and I swallow thickly. Pointing in its direction, I say the last thing to her before my head hits the ground, “Fire.”