I find Boris on the far edge of the inselberg, sitting on a flat slab of rock with his back to the group. His axe is on the ground beside him—dropped. The posture of a man who let go of the weight.
I sit down beside him. Same rock. Same horizon.
I let the silence exist. Pushing now closes the door permanently.
Years of negotiating with people who are one wrong word away from shutting down forever tells me I need to be careful.
I start soft.
"Sorry about my man back there. He just lost someone. I know it's not an excuse. Just context."
Boris doesn't look at me. He lets out a low sound—half grunt, half laugh, no humor in either half. "It's fine, kid. He's not the first person who's screamed at me after burying someone in this sand… and won't be the last."
More silence.
But his silence isn't anger. I feel this is the silence of someone who's been carrying something alone for so long the weight has become part of his skeleton.
I wait.
