By midday, the air had changed.
Melina noticed it first—not with her eyes, but her throat. The warmth settled heavier now, thick with smells that layered over one another without separation. Rot. Sap. Animal musk. Something sour drifting from the riverbank.
She pressed her palm against her chest, breathing shallowly. "I can feel it in my lungs," she said. "This air… it shouldn't be safe."
Boris didn't answer immediately. His attention was fixed on the humans as they moved deeper into the forest edge, scattering with purpose.
"They're foraging," he said at last.
The word made her stomach tighten.
One of the men crouched beside a low-growing plant, its leaves broad and waxy. He tore one free, sniffed it, then bit down hard.
Melina watched his face carefully, waiting for reaction.
Nothing.
He chewed slowly. Swallowed.
Then he waited.
So did the others.
Minutes passed.
He did not collapse. Did not retch. Did not clutch his throat.
The group relaxed.
Melina felt cold spread through her limbs. "That's it?" she asked. "That's the test?"
"Yes," Boris said. "Delayed poison isn't accounted for yet."
Another man plucked a cluster of berries—small, dark, glistening. He popped one into his mouth.
This time, the reaction was immediate.
His face twisted. He spat violently, coughing. The sound was wet and panicked. He gagged, dropped to his knees, fingers clawing at his tongue.
The group surged closer—not to help, but to watch.
Melina's breath hitched. "They're not stopping him."
"They're learning," Boris said quietly.
The man vomited. Again. Again. His body shook, convulsing, emptying itself violently onto the ground. After a long moment, he collapsed forward, breathing hard but alive.
Silence followed.
Then a low murmur rippled through the group.
Melina watched one of the others step forward and kick the pile of berries away with his foot.
"Rule established," Boris said. "Don't eat those."
"No," Melina snapped. "Rule established that those make you sick fast. They don't know if they kill you later."
Boris didn't disagree.
The man who had eaten the berries wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then drank from the river immediately—long, desperate gulps.
Melina recoiled. "No—no, you'll make it worse."
The water sloshed over his chin, streaked with vomit and saliva.
"She's right," Boris muttered. "He's reintroducing whatever caused it."
The man staggered to his feet, visibly weaker now.
But he was still alive.
That was enough.
The group moved on.
They gathered roots next—thick, pale, knotted things torn brutally from the earth. One woman cracked one open with a stone, sniffed it, then licked the inside cautiously.
Melina felt sweat gather at her temples. "They're using their mouths like instruments."
"Yes."
"That's insane."
"That's what mouths were before language," Boris replied.
The woman nodded to the others and began chewing. The root resisted, fibrous and raw. She grimaced, spat once, then tried again.
Her jaw worked harder this time.
Acceptance.
Melina hugged herself. "They don't cook. They don't wash. They don't—Boris, this would kill people where we come from."
"And yet," he said, watching the group distribute the roots evenly, "it hasn't killed them yet."
The humans sat together to eat.
Hands passed food freely. Fingers dipped into mouths. Spit transferred casually. Blood from earlier cuts smeared into pulp and fiber without comment.
Melina's vision swam.
"This is how disease spreads," she said hoarsely. "This is exactly how."
One man coughed—a deep, rattling sound—and spat onto the ground near the others. No one moved away. No one recoiled.
They stepped in it.
Melina felt something twist violently inside her. "They don't isolate sickness."
"No," Boris said. "They absorb it."
She shook her head. "That's not adaptation. That's gambling."
"Yes."
After eating, one of the women stood and walked to the river. She knelt and scrubbed her hands against a rock—not thoroughly, not intentionally. Just enough to remove visible residue.
Melina leaned forward. "She's washing."
"Or removing sensation," Boris said. "The stickiness bothers her."
The woman sniffed her hands afterward, frowned slightly, then rubbed them in dirt.
Melina stared. "Why would she do that?"
"To replace one texture with another," Boris said slowly. "She doesn't know about cleanliness. She knows about comfort."
The dirt dried the moisture. The smell changed.
The woman seemed satisfied.
Melina closed her eyes. "They think dirt fixes it."
"It does," Boris said. "Sometimes."
That was the most terrifying part.
Later, as the group moved again, one man limped slightly. A wound on his foot—open, angry—oozed faintly.
He stopped, pressed mud directly into it, and wrapped it with a strip of hide.
Melina gasped. "That's infection waiting to happen."
"Yes."
"But the bleeding stopped."
"Yes."
She turned to Boris, eyes wide. "They're building rules based on immediate results."
"And passing them on," he said. "That's hygiene, before hygiene."
A child would have been pulled away. A wound cleaned. Antibiotics administered. Sterile dressings applied.
Here, dirt was medicine because it worked once.
Melina felt her hands trembling. "How many die before they realize the difference?"
Boris didn't answer.
He watched the humans disappear between the trees—fed, wounded, contaminated, alive.
Behind them, the forest absorbed what they left behind. Vomit. Blood. Spit. Waste.
No sanitation. No separation.
Only time.
Melina whispered, "This is unbearable."
Boris finally turned to her.
"This," he said quietly, "is how bodies teach themselves without understanding."
She swallowed hard, eyes burning.
"And how many lessons," she asked, "does it take before curiosity stops killing people?"
Boris looked back at the forest.
"More than anyone remembers," he said.
The day moved on.
So did they.