Ren scraped the last grain of cold, curry-stained rice into her mouth. She chewed with the enthusiasm of a prisoner eating gruel.
"All done," she whispered to the hollow.
Altair did not turn around. The massive Golden Eagle remained perched at the entrance, staring out into the darkness of the forest like a feathered gargoyle. He was stoic. He was silent. He was radiating a "Do Not Disturb" aura so strong it could probably repel mosquitoes.
Ren sighed. She gathered the bark plates, the hand-whittled chopsticks, and the blackened stock pot.
She went to the entrance, right next to him, to wash the dishes in the light drizzle.
"Excuse me," she muttered, reaching past his tail feathers to scrub a piece of kale off the bark.
He didn't flinch. He didn't look at her. He didn't even shuffle his wings.
