"At the very least, we should see if it all cracks the same on both sides," he offers, knowing the symmetry of the canyons is of some interest to Bodhi. He doesn't know what his own interests are, here: they're coming in slowly, trying to anchor him. Need over want, that's how winter goes.

He can't just put his head down and make paper forever.

"Maybe there are tools we could make." His voice is dried as a husk, prompting him to finally sit up, blink away the momentary dizziness of it, and pick up the tea. It doesn't matter what it tastes like: it's hot, it smooths the stone of his throat. "Prepare stuff while we're stuck, like torches, and there's a girl I think, makes rope."