"Someonehas to do it."
"You tried to access pack stores."
"I tried to organize a pile of rotting food so it stopped rotting."
"That's not your call."
"Bushels of grain were spoiling. That's not hierarchy, that'swaste."
"It's both."
My mouth opens. Closes.
He's—that's actually—
That's annoyingly correct.
"Fine! It's both. I overstepped. I know that now."
His face sharpens.
"You don't know any of the rules."
"No. I don't." I look at him straight on. "So tell me."
The dwelling is very small. I'm aware of this because he's standing in it, which makes it smaller, and the comfrey I was stripping is on the table between us, and the distance from the edge of the pallet to where he's standing is about two feet, which is not enough feet.
I could count the stitching on his shirt from here. I'm not going to count the stitching on his shirt.
I'm going to listen to the rules. Because rules are important. Rules are what keep people from doing stupid things in small dwellings that smell like pine and—
"The cache is mine. Stores, supplies, resource decisions. Through me or Axan."
"Through you or Axan. Done."
"The cooking area isn't restricted."
"Good. That's the one I need."
"The forge is Axan's. The weapons cache."
"I have zero interest in the weapons cache."
"The den boundaries. The ridge path is open but the eastern border isn't."
"Eastern border. Don't go there. Got it. What else?"
He's watching me. I'm listening. Every rule is a door. I'm counting them.
"That's enough for now."
"Enough for now implies there's more."
"There's always more."
"Then I'll keep asking."
"You will." Not a question.
