It was the only ritual that had held all these years, his last tie to society proper, and he warmed in its familiarity as he stood beneath the viaduct, smoking his pipe. The chilled night held no stars to light the restless reeds along the creek bed. Crickets chattered and stopped.
He knocked out the bowl and slid the pipe into a tattered pocket. "There's soup in the bucket, if you have need," he called.
The black air held its breath. He watched the dark tops of cattails jutting against the darker tops of those behind, wondering if he should be alarmed or offended. After several moments, a girl stepped into the firelight.
She was dressed in clothes with a lot of wear left in them. A blanket roll hung from her back. She crouched as if ready to flee, eyes darting between him and the remains of his supper. With a sidelong glance, she rushed the bucket, drinking too fast and losing broth down her chin. She scooped out meat scraps with her fingers. "Good soup."
"Squirrel." He sat on the slanting, gravel embankment, hands on his knees, watching her.
Her hair showed blond in the flicker of the flame, her face too young. She sat cross-legged with the bucket between her knees, wiping grease from her chin. "Thanks."
He didn't answer.
She crooked her hair behind her ears, looking around his camp. "My father smokes a pipe. I always liked the smell."
Shaking his head, he got to his feet.
Her eyes widened, and her voice rose in pitch. "Traveling alone?"
He moved to the other side of the campfire. "Yes. You?"
"Maybe." She glanced at the black reeds. "What's your name?"
But he'd drifted so long through titles and names, he couldn't remember which had been his. "You can call me Jason."
She smiled. "Jason was an adventurer."
He teased the fire with a stick.
"Not many adventurers left," she said. "Not near enough."
"Enough for what?"
She pushed the bucket away, wiping her hands on her like-new pants. "Well, look at Mr. and Mrs. Average. Their wants are so shallow. Meaningless."
He stared at the meager fire and shivered, although he wasn't cold. "Adventuring makes for a hungry existence."
"I couldn't stand to go back, walk through life like they do." She pulled her legs to her chest, wrapping them with her arms.
He dropped the stick, watching it catch and turn bright with flame. "I was told once that life was a deep pool. First you see the water, then the rocks at the bottom, and at last you see the depth of the pool itself."
She stared across the distance between them, her cheek on her hand, eyes shadowed. "You're a poet."
"No," he told her. "That was Anne."
"Was? What happened?"
He looked away.
Into the silence, she asked, "Was she pretty?"
"She had blond hair. Like yours," he said, and was surprised he could still remember.
Night chattered from the drying creek bed. Cars traveled the road above.
She cupped her chin with her knees, her hair falling, hiding her face. "Would you go back," she murmured, "if you could?"
He stared hard at the dying campfire, and answered in a low whisper. "Yes."
With a laugh, she tossed her head back. "You're no adventurer."
"Even adventurers need ties. To remind them what they're looking for." Brushing gravel from his hands, he climbed the incline and sat deep within the overpass. "It would be safe for you if you wanted to sleep." Tugging his worn jacket nearer his ears, he lay on his side.
Morning was yet a shifting of sound when he opened his eyes and knew it was day. He filled the bucket with rocks from the fire and left it in the ashes where he had found it—a courtesy learned long ago.
The girl slept in blankets, her face upturned from the crook of her arm, her hair splayed over the dirt.
Crouching beside her, he pulled a leather pouch from his pocket. Even with the drawstring closed, the scent of tobacco was strong. "This is your tie. It reminds you of home, so you know how to get back." He set the pouch beside her.
She stirred in her sleep.
The sky grayed, edging toward dawn, and a bird called from the reeds. He scaled the steep and slippery embankment toward the empty road.
