Though there was nothing new to be found on this day, every hike there was a restorative to the senses. The lumbering red oak and bog spruce, the creeping pokeweed. The hanging musk of vegetal decay, the wafting char of burned-out forts, and the coo of the unseen mamèthakemu. The trio didn’t say much in their amble. The essence of tekene spake wherein they tread.
Gendatehundin Uchtechsut
“Aargh!” cried out Ian, halting in his tracks. He lifted his foot out of the tawny leaf litter to reveal a rusty nail from a plank had pierced the sole of his ankle boot. “Uh-oh,” Stacey stared. Ian whipped off the boot and sock and the three examined a bleeding puncture wound on his foot.
“Damn. Does it hurt?” Gass-Boy blurted.
“Of course it hurts!” winced Ian. He wiped the blood on his sleeve, clicking his tongue.
“Can you walk on it?” asked Stacey.
Ian slipped the sock and boot back on and tried to stand. “Mmph — It hurts worse than it looks.”
Stacey slung her arm around Ian’s left shoulder. “Get his other side,” she directed Gass-Boy.
Mamchachwelendam òk Nisha Witschindin
Stacey and Gass-Boy had Ian in a two-person arm carry and carefully stepped their way through the brush.
“You had a tetanus shot, Ian?”
“I dunno. I guess.” He was chagrined but silently thankful as they eventually cleared the forest.
At home Ian treated the wound, and to be honest, it really didn’t hurt anymore. Maybe knowing that friends had his back outweighed any pain he endured.
The afternoon went on.
Menatey Ekhokiike
Ian, Gass-Boy, and Stacey sat in the pitch dark of Plaza Cinéma. A projector fluttered and soon the three were immersed in some cinematic adventure of derring-do. The climactic scene was a cheap chroma-keyed effect of the protagonist dragging his buddies from an encroaching tide of lava.
“Look, it’s us!” laughed Gass-Boy.
All three had an honest chuckle.
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