He moved. Not like a thief. Like a person who could not dance and didn't care. Ugly stepping, off-beat. Heel, small drag, toe kiss, pause. Two, three, five. His body wanted to fall into a pretty walk; he refused it. Prime-step saved lives. He let it.
He slipped between tents two and three. Someone had hung mittens on a line there, four in a row like fat birds. He ducked under them. A junior in the nearest tent snored with tiny squeaks on the inhale. The sound made him think of mice and the warm middle of winter bread. He felt his mouth soften. He hardened it again.
