Marc Bare had passed the hunter six times in the forests of Kazeshini, and six times he had failed to say more than hello. He was a broad, bearded man who shaped bows for a living, and he could bend stubborn wood into a curve. He could not bend one conversation into something real. Each meeting ended the same way. A nod. A dry throat. The hunter walking on, bow slung across his back, while Marc stood there hating his own silence. Today the sky broke open. Rain hammered the trees and turned the trail to mud. Marc ducked under a black weeping willow, its long branches hanging like a curtain around him. He crouched to fix his laces. His bold black sneakers, panels bright red even in the gray light, had come loose in the muck. Branches parted. The hunter stepped under the willow, soaked, breathing hard. He saw Marc and stopped. The old nod started to rise between them. Then the hunter cursed. He pulled a worn knife from his belt and held it up. The blade was faded, the handle cracked, the whole thing dull as a spoon. "Snapped on a hide this morning," he said. "Useless now." Marc did not nod. He stood. "Let me see it," he said. The hunter hesitated, then set the knife in Marc's palm. Marc ran his thumb along the edge. He knew worn tools. He knew soft handles and tired steel. "The handle's loose, not dead," Marc said. "I can pin it. Sharpen the blade too. I have the bench for it." "You do woodwork?" "Bows." Marc pointed the knife tip toward the trail. "My workshop's close. Racks of them by the door. You've probably walked past it." The hunter almost smiled. "I have. I wondered who lived there." Rain filled the pause, but the pause did not turn awkward. For the first time it held something open. "Bring the hides you can't work," Marc said. "I'll have this back to you sharp by tomorrow." The hunter looked at the knife, then at Marc, weighing him. He wiped water from his beard. "Tomorrow, then," he said. "At your shop." He turned and pushed back through the willow branches. This time he glanced over his shoulder before the trees swallowed him. Marc stood under the dripping canopy with the broken knife warm in his fist. He had a name to learn and a blade to fix by morning. He had, at last, a reason to be found. But now the hunter would stand inside his workshop, close enough to watch his hands shake, and Marc had one night to make himself worth the visit.