TripStone tried to shut out the sounds of retching and the stench of dysentery. Ignoring the wails of fresh grief proved harder.
She had carried her father home, stunned at his thinness. Now he lay dwarfed and alone on his marriage bed while she checked and rechecked what meat remained, smoking and preserving slabs that only seemed uncontaminated.
Her keen nose might deceive her. An incriminating blemish might escape her eye. Then she and NightShout would join the newly fallen, succumbing to death that continued not at the hands of Yata but from creatures she couldn't even see and in which only a few believed.
TripStone would have been a disbeliever as well, except for Ghost and his animalcules. She counted the days. He must have run out of meat by now. She should cut into her own sparse ration and spirit something to him.
The battle's smoke would have been visible from the cabin. He would know