As they negotiate the foothills Rust pays even less heed to de Guzman than he did the day before. It's a strange contrast: his absorption in their surroundings, down to chipped rocks and shifted stones, automatic adjustments as the sun climbs higher in the sky; and his obliviousness to the man trailing after him, to hunger pangs, to the sweat trickling down his face except when it splatters on rock, drips in his eyes.

Word of a threatening storm intensifies his focus—he descends into silence, working faster and tackling sheer rock slopes where before he might have paused. Never sloppy, but driven past the point of caution.

“Hurry it up!” he calls—harsh, impatient, but nothing pointed in it—when de Guzman once again falls behind. “Can't track in the fucking rain.”