10

He walks into the wilderness and continues for what he figures are a few hours. He thinks he remembers things. Survival things, not things about his life or about his situation. He doesn't know whether it is memory or whether it has been put there. It feels like memory; it feels as though he has known it, as though it has been a part of his life, that he has learned these things and simply has not used them for so long that he has forgotten them, and forgotten that he has ever learned them. He knows he has to make or to find a shelter, and he knows how to do so. He locates a rock formation, jutting out from a hill. This will do. He knows he must build a fire, and he knows how to do this, as well: he finds some dry, stringy bark, which he shoves around some larger dry sticks he has gathered. He knows, somehow he has a knife and a stone in his pocket, and he scrapes the knife on the stone over the tinder and wood to produce a spark that then produces the fire. And, most importantly, he will find out that he knows how to hunt and scavage -- slugs, insects, small animals -- and to find water (boiling whatever water he finds in order to make it drinkable). He is both thankful and not a little irritated at the thought that, if he is not remembering the skills, then something -- The Magnificence, likely -- has placed this knowledge, these skills, in his head. Neither thankfulness nor irritation will get him anywhere, however, so he chooses not to dwell on either feeling. Shelter secured, fire started, he lies down, exhausted, and sleeps.