Elias frowned and unbuckled the strap. The pouch was heavy, far heavier than it should have been. He opened the drawstrings and tilted it toward the firelight.
The knife slipped. A thin bead of red welted on his thumb. He didn't curse; he didn't have the energy to spare for anger. He simply put the thumb to his mouth, tasted the salt and iron, and went back to the pine. He was carving a small bird. A robin, or something like it. Clara had loved the robins that nested in the orchard back home. A heavy thud sounded against the heavy oak door.
“Water,” the stranger croaked after an hour. His eyes hadn't opened, but his hand moved, fumbling at his side. He wasn't reaching for a weapon. He was pulling at a heavy leather pouch slung across his chest.