Mudders are not supposed to ask for things. We go instead to lengths to let someone know we want something from them. A Mudder should always volunteer to help their fellow if we have the slightest impression that they are in want of something. This is how we do things. But Honrick is no Mudder, so I am forced to ask him bluntly if he will show me how his writing works.

  Knowing that he likes to go to the mess hut when it is quiet, I try to meet him there. He comes on the second day of my wait, his bag flapping at his arse, just as the last breakfasters were leaving. I sit down quickly across from him and speak my questions. He doesn’t want to answer, of course, and he looks with longing at the flapping door while I speak. But I look intently into his transparent face, and he agrees to show me the secrets of his scratching. He is reluctant to loosen the arms that he has clenched tight around his body, but he readies his little scratching stick, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. In my hurry, before he can put it to use, I pluck it from his grip and make a few marks of my own. I am frantic, having thought about little else for the previous few days.

  I scratch out my untidy marks, one for Mister, one for Gaffer, one for Clabby, one for male and female, explaining as I go, the little stick bending under my arm’s weight. He shivers in the cold while I scratch – it is a chilly morning, even for a Mudder.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Once I am finished, I offer him one of our little hinch hand warmers, to stop him shivering. It is a simple implement that we use every day, but he is immediately fascinated by it, asking me again to show him how it works. He becomes so distracted by the simple rubbing of the rock to produce heat that he loses all focus on the writing. He wants to know what it is and where it came from. I can no longer make him listen to my questions.

  I point out through the curtain, showing him the mountain where we harvest the hinch, in the hope that he would then return to the lesson. But the hinch is too fascinating – he is up and out the door as soon as he sees the mountain and his attention will not be dragged away. He will help me another time, he says.

  Well. Doesn’t the Mister call a meeting the following day, telling us that Honrick had left that morning! Back to Chiram. My heart sinks into my belly. He will be back in Clabby in two weeks, reports the Mister. Of course, he will not be back, I think. He has recovered from his injury and is going home. Why would he come back?

  I struggle hard to make meaning of the Chiramite signs, in his absence. Some days the curling threads seem to reach out to me, willing me to understand. On other days they lie slumped on the sheet, not wanting to be bothered.