Clack. Clack. Clack.
The sound of rock against wood echoed through the small clearing near my cave.
I sat cross-legged on the dirt, my shirt tossed onto a nearby rock—it was too damn hot and humid to keep it on—focusing entirely on the piece of wood in my hands. A decent-sized branch I'd found yesterday, straight enough, strong enough.
Now I was turning it into something useful.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
I'd been at this for hours. My hands were raw, blistered, covered in small cuts from where the rock slipped or the wood splintered.
However, I was getting somewhere.
The branch was taking shape—one end sharpened to a rough point, the other wrapped with strips of vine to give me a better grip. It wasn't a masterpiece. It wasn't even good. But it was mine.
Clack.
I stopped and held it up, examining my work. The point was crooked. The shape was uneven. A real craftsman would probably laugh at it.
But it would work.
