Hawk had slid down and clambered over the fence, surveying the road blearily. He pointed up the road, away from the setting sun, at a sign in the distance.

"It's I-10, same road we left," he said. "Can't you see the sign?"

Teige hopped the fence, saying irritably, "No, I fucken well can't see that far, Sunshine. I thought we were supposed to end up directly in Fort Summer."

Hawk blinked at him with some surprise. "Relax, jeez," he said, "we just drifted too far west. We can stop here and get to Fort Summer in the mornin'."

"In the morning, right," Teige muttered, ears pinned back. "Feathers, we've hardly ate since we left Waycross. I'm spent."

Hawk pointed, wordlessly, up the road again. A doe lay in the dry brush in the road's shoulder, clearly dead, half-hidden in the grass and the dying light.

"It's still bleeding, see?" Hawk stood over it, peering down thoughtfully. A smear of blood was indeed leaking from the deer's nose and mouth, onto the pavement. "Eyes're still clear, fur's not slipping, doesn't smell. Fresh as sun-up," he concluded. "How d'ya feel about venison?"

Teige stared down at the deer, and then at Hawk. Hawk caught his expression and glanced up.

"What?"