He opened the book where he'd left off and started reading.
The chapter moved from general history into specific claims. Cultivation of breath, the author wrote, was once considered essential to spiritual and physical refinement in several early civilizations. Not ceremonial breathwork—not meditation for calm—but deliberate internal development, practiced regularly, sometimes obsessively, over years.
Korman pointed to patterns in early sources—carvings, scrolls, and fragments translated from multiple regions. One section described breath control techniques traced to ancient Japan, practiced among reclusive monks who trained to lower their heart rate until it nearly stopped. Another reference detailed South American stone carvings believed to show isolated warriors sitting cross-legged in mountain alcoves, surrounded by marks that symbolized spiraling pressure or internal force. Egyptian tomb records mentioned temple figures who passed through long breath fasting rites before serving in higher religious roles.
The tone of the book remained clinical. Each reference came with a short paragraph—place, artifact, suggested interpretation. Some were better documented than others. The author noted the limitations, but pointed out how often these cultures connected breath and internal transformation.
Peter turned the page.
A section focused on a single scroll, held in a private collection. The translated passage claimed that full breath cultivation could align the body with the energy of all things. No diagram followed. Just a footnote linking the phrase to older philosophical systems. The origin of the scroll was loosely described, with a few details about the ink, paper, and general age.
Peter read the line again. Energy of all things. It sounded vague to him. A bit of a leap, considering everything that came before. But given the state of things lately, he figured maybe the author wasn't wrong. Not everything needed to make sense right away.
He flipped to the next page.
So far, nothing had felt helpful. Nothing to actually do.
He kept reading.
The structure of the book didn't change. Same format—more references, more claims. A stone tablet from northern India with marks shaped like ribcages. A shipwreck inventory listing "breath-tension routines" next to grain and cloth. A section speculating that certain ritual postures in early Mesoamerican sites were linked to diaphragm compression.
The chapters circled the same point over and over. Breath had once meant more. The body could be shaped by it. Energy came from it. Nothing too fancy. Nothing that told him what to do. Just long paragraphs tying one old name to another, drawing lines across continents and centuries.
Peter turned another page. The light from the window had shifted slightly. His eyes felt dry. The kind of tired that comes from doing something that feels like it matters, even if it might not.
If things were normal—if he still had school, sports, a phone—he would've thought the guy who wrote this was full of it. A nut with a private theory and too much time in his own head. The desert photo on the back cover didn't help.
He leaned back in the chair for a moment and rubbed one eye with the heel of his palm.
Then he turned to the end.
The final section was different.
It opened with a page scan—a faded document, translated line by line beneath the original characters. The heading called it a fragment from the Hengzhou Compilation, dated roughly 600 CE.
The translation claimed it came from a martial discipline passed through a single family line. The fragment described three physical movements, each with a name that had no direct English translation. One resembled "standing the ridge," another translated roughly to "coil the shoulder," and the last, "thread the base."
Beneath that, the text outlined a breathing pattern tied to the sequence. It required a long exhale through the teeth while keeping the stomach pulled inward. Each movement was meant to be done once per breath. No instructions on how to link them together. Just a note about internal temperature and pressure rising through the chest.
Peter sat forward again.
The writing style had shifted slightly—less formal, more observational. The translator had added short brackets next to a few terms, clarifying anatomical focus and cultural context. No pictures, but enough that he could picture the shapes in his head.
This was the first thing that felt real.
He flipped the page carefully, keeping his forearm in the band of sunlight across the table.
The next page began with another heading—short, plain: Annotated Account: The Method of Measured Silence (Fragment, Source Undated).
The section described a breathing art practiced by an ancient monastic tradition in Mongolia. The translator explained that The Method of Measured Silence had been passed from teacher to student across generations, preserved in isolated mountain regions. The monks lived apart, devoting their lives to internal discipline—training breath, managing internal pressure, tracking the body's shifts in heat and weight. The goal was mastery of the inner self through repeated daily patterns. No prayers, no offerings. Just breath, posture, and awareness.
The breathing technique stood out. Inhale through the nose for seven counts. Hold for three. Exhale in three short bursts over ten seconds. Jaw slack. Tongue pressed flat to the roof of the mouth. Eyes half-closed, gaze settled downward.
A term appeared in the margin beside the instructions: slow convergence. The translator suggested it referred to a movement of awareness—from the chest to the back of the skull—brought on by precision breathing.
Peter read that part again.
The hunter had said something about warmth climbing up his spine. Everyone had brushed him off. But the shape of this practice wasn't far from that idea.
The breathing looked uncomfortable. Clunky. But it followed a rhythm—long inhale, controlled hold, broken exhale. It lined up with everything else he'd seen so far.
He closed the book as he finished the book, he felt his stomache rumble- he was hungry.
First, Peter found the natural peanut butter. It was in the lower cabinet, behind a box of baking soda and an old tin of salt. They'd been trying to eat through the stuff that would spoil first—anything with oil, dairy, or expiration dates in the same decade.
His dad wanted to save the canned goods. With more people arriving and the world falling apart, Peter figured he was right. There'd be a shortage soon enough.
Some of the hunters had started saying that the animal meat—the ones acting strange since the quake—seemed different. They weren't sure yet, but a few of them claimed a little went a long way. People felt full quicker. Soups made from it could stretch further than expected. No one had tested it properly, but that's what they were saying.
Peter grabbed a spoon from the drawer and ate a mouthful of peanut butter straight from the jar. After that, a half-full bag of dehydrated pea chips. He washed it down with a bottle of water from the crate near the back door.
When he finished, he stood and made his way down the hall to check on his sister.
He walked down the hall to the back room and stopped in front of the door. It was shut tight, same as it had been all day. He raised his hand and knocked—two short raps, not loud.
Nothing.
He sighed through his nose and knocked again, slower this time, letting his knuckles rest against the wood a moment before pulling them back.
Still nothing.
He reached for the knob. It turned without resistance. He pushed the door open slowly, careful not to let it creak too loud.
The air in the room was heavier. The curtains were drawn, only a faint strip of light falling across the floor. It smelled faintly like old laundry and whatever they'd used to clean the floors last week.
Nicki was in the bed, near the wall, wrapped tight in two different blankets. One was gray fleece, the other a faded blue comforter with frayed edges. Her hood was up again. She lay on her side, knees pulled up, back slightly hunched.
Peter stepped in just enough to see her face.
Her eyes were open. She stared at the wall—unmoving, unfocused, like she was looking at something far off or nothing at all.
He stood there for a few seconds. Her breathing was steady but shallow. Her hands were under the blanket. Her shoes sat next to the bed, untied.
She didn't say anything.
He didn't either.
He backed up, stepped out, and started to pull the door closed again.
As it latched, he exhaled slowly through his nose.
Their dad really needed to handle this. Nicki wasn't getting better. If anything, she was slipping deeper.
It was still daylight. Sunlight stretched across the porch and lit up the dry patches of grass in the front yard.
Peter looked at the book on the table. The breathing patterns were interesting, but he didn't feel like sitting still and trying them yet.
What he really wanted was to talk to the hunter—the one who said he'd felt the energy after eating the deer.
He left the book where it was, grabbed his jacket off the chair, and stepped outside. The porch boards creaked under his feet. He walked down the steps and started looking around town to see if he could find the guy.