He put his hand to his head, with the need to touch it and to make it work properly. He had to think of things to do, and how could he do that? His father, for example—what should he do about him? He went a few steps without the door, and tried to consider, looking at the sleeping figure by the fire. The faint glow of the coals made a little ring of dim light. In it he stood, swaying.
“Oh my God,” she said, behind him. “You are drunk.”
“Li’l bit,” he admitted. “Li’l bit. Not enough to scare a b-baby.”
She put this away scornfully. “Scare nothin’,” she said sharply. “Can you keep to the trail? That’s all.”
He laughed foolishly. “Tha’s all right,” he repeated, “I can find trail, drunk or sober.”
She stood pressing her hands in and out and turning helplessly to the dark. The dark gave her back only the lights of Inch.
“There’s nothing else to do,” she said dully. “If you show me the trail, maybe I can keep you on it.”
In some indeterminate shame, he went without a word, brought his blanket, and turned again to the hut.
“I’ve got a kit,” she said. “It’s got enough to eat. Do you understand? Don’t get anything else. Oh, let’s start, let’s start!”