Soon, Jud pulled the meat off the grill and dropped it into a sheet of foil, folding it up quick to hold the heat. The foil crinkled as he pressed it closed with his thumb, sealing in the rising steam.
Peter felt a little thrill at how this was going. Jud clearly had some baggage—still gave off that wired, twitchy edge—but here he was, handing over food like it was nothing. No attitude, no speech. Just meat and fire. Peter had come with questions, but this—getting handed something hot and cooked—felt more grounded than talking.
He took the foil-wrapped portion, still warm in his hands. The outside was greasy where the sauce had soaked through. Steam rolled out in curls when he peeled it back.
Fuck, he thought, looking at the meat.
There was a flicker of hesitation—tight in his gut. Like taking candy from a stranger. The meat sat there, thick-cut and slick with sauce, still steaming. It had grill marks burned into the edges and a little bit of char clinging to the corners. The smell was strong and sweet—smoke, fat, molasses, something with pepper.
Jud had split the meat right down the middle.
Half for him, half for Peter. Seemed generous, considering they didn't know each other.
Peter stepped back a bit, found a spot ten or fifteen arm lengths away, and sat down cross-legged on a patch of rough grass. A flat rock pressed into his thigh, and a weed poked up under his knee, but he didn't shift.
Fuck it, he thought. The world had been fucked. His family was fucked. Fortune favors the brave.
He believed it was a new world now—and he wanted to be a pioneer.
He bit into the meat.
It was hot, tender through the middle, with a grilled edge that crackled slightly when his teeth hit it. The BBQ had cooked in deep—smoky and sharp, a little sticky where it had thickened over the heat. There was real flavor to it, not just survival food. Jud had seasoned it well—some kick in the back of the throat, salt, a hint of something like cumin or chili.
The foil was soft in his grip, greasy and warm. A drop of sauce slid down his thumb.
A few seconds later, it was gone.
He licked his fingers clean, wiping the grease on his jeans after.
As Peter felt the meat settle in his stomach—
The biggest relief was that it didn't hurt—at least not like that first day, when the light came ripping from the ground and sky and everything had hit him at once: cold, heat, and electrocution, tangled together and firing through every nerve.
This was different.
He closed his eyes.
He could see the energy—faint, settled deep in his stomach like a slow, dim glow. It sat heavy beneath his ribs, warm and dense. Then it began to move. It spread outward in slow currents, tracing through him like rising heat off pavement.
He figured it was moving with the food, spreading as his body broke it down.
Peter had two options: the measured silence method, or the movement technique he'd started calling it.
The movement one made more sense to him. Three steps—"stand the ridge," "coil the shoulder," "thread the base." He'd run through them before, felt the shifts in balance, the turns in his hips. They'd left a mark in his muscles even if the sequence was fuzzy now.
He tried to bring the steps to mind but came up blank.
The other technique—the measured silence—was clearer. He could recall the words exactly, the rhythm of breath it asked for. He hadn't practiced it, but he figured he'd give it a better shot.
He sat still and tried to breathe how the book had described—deep, measured, slow.
Nothing happened.
A gnat hovered near his ear, dipping in and out of the edge of his hearing. The wind threaded through the tall grass, brushing against his arms and face in irregular sweeps. Somewhere behind him, Jud shifted with a soft grunt, metal tapping as something settled on the grill.
His thoughts jumped—to his dad, quiet and worn out, probably still helping the other adults reinforce the town's edge. To Nicki, curled up in a back room, not saying much, wrapped in those same blankets since they'd arrived. Then his mom. And the bear. The weight of it crashing through trees. The way it moved, faster than something that big should have. The eyes. The blood.
He breathed in through his nose. Let it out.
Focus, he told himself. Shut it out.
Again.
His back itched, one spot between the shoulder blades he couldn't reach. His neck cracked when he turned slightly. The sun leaned in against one side of his face, steady and warm.
He stayed still. More breathing. More trying.
The noise in his head began to fade. Not all at once, but gradually, like a dimmer switch turning down. The sharp edges of thought dulled. The breeze turned to rhythm. The pressure in his knees sank into the background. His breath lengthened. Slowed.
Then the warmth stirred again—gathering, spreading from his core to his limbs in slow, steady waves. It wasn't just heat—it had weight to it. A gentle, constant push from inside, like something unfolding against his skin.
He leaned into it.
After about twenty minutes, something clicked.
He could feel the energy—clearly now—and not just feel it. He could see it. Not like lines, but paths, running deep through his body in faint, branching trails. He could move it. Direct it.
He guided the flow toward one of the inner paths.
The second it touched—
Pain.
Sharp, flooding pain. Cold and hot at once. And under it, a snapping jolt—like someone lit up his insides with jumper cables. His breath caught. He yanked the energy back, fast. The pain shut off like a switch.
He blinked, heart thudding hard in his chest.
Cool, he thought flatly. Exactly like last time.
He glanced at Jud. The guy was still sitting there, calm as ever, eyes shut like he was napping on a beach.
Peter clenched his teeth, rolled his shoulders, and gave it another shot.
Pain.
He flinched. A sharp hiss escaped between his teeth.
He sat back, jaw tight. Breathed once. Twice. Tried again.
Pain. Worse. His arms jerked, breath catching in his throat. A sound punched out of him—half grunt, half yelp—and he nearly toppled forward.
"Okay," he muttered under his breath, "so that's not the way either."
He pushed again, just to see.
The energy slammed into whatever the hell was blocking it and knocked the breath out of him like a punch to the gut. He dropped the attempt and sat back on his heels, breathing hard through his nose.
Another try. Same result. Cold, heat, lightning. Like his veins couldn't make up their mind how to hurt.
And the worst part? He kept making noise. Not loud, but enough. A grunt here, a curse there. He kept trying to swallow it down, but every jolt squeezed something out of him.
After a while, his palms were pressed flat to his thighs, sweat sticking behind his knees, jaw set hard. His neck ached from tensing it. His hands kept twitching, like they were trying to shake something off.
You're doing it wrong, he told himself. Obviously. Great job Peter be thought to himself sarcastically as he continued to cultivate.
He opened his eyes again, ready to take a break or maybe punch the dirt.
He opened his eyes again, ready to take a break or maybe punch the dirt.
Jud was standing in front of him now, arms loose at his sides, head tilted just slightly. One eyebrow was up. His mouth was pressed into something between a line and a smirk, like he was trying to figure out if Peter was meditating or having a slow-motion seizure.
His eyes squinted a little, like the sun was in them—or like Peter was.
It wasn't mean. Just confused. A little wary. Like Jud was watching someone try to put on pants upside down.
Peter stared back, still breathing hard. His shirt clung to his back, and his thighs ached from tensing so long.