Black piñya trees sway in the night. Resined smoke covers the moving figures creating tonight's campsite. Your task is complete. The handful of the black-green piñya needles you used as tinder is turning the dry wood from the wood cart into a fiery mound. Walking around the cookfire one more time, you check for any stray needles or buried cones you may have missed sweeping. The piñya trees and caravan wagons may not burn, but everything in the wagons, the pulling beasts, and your clan would be lost if the forest caught fire.
A small shadow comes out of the smoke and into the firelight.
"Mama says you have to get some water, " your little sister says, carrying a bucket. "I'm to watch the fire."
