he dumps the firewood on the floor of the cave. but where the fire had flickered, there is only a pile of wet black ashes.
chuck wakes up, trembling, shaking, wet with sweat. he staggers up. his shadow sways on the wall of the cave. he struggles to get another log on the fire. he squints at his only companion, the soccer ball.
he chews some berries, then holds his hand against the wall of the cave and spits a dark blue mist around it. when he takes his hand away, the silhouette of his handprint remains.
with the angel wing box as a model, chuck dips one of his feather brushes in paint, and make a tentative line on the wall of the cave. he works hesitantly, rubs off a line, tries again.
as the rain pours down outside, chuck studies the sodden, ruined photograph of kelly, which is really only a gray mess.
chuck constructs a water collection device with some fedex boxes, some plastic weighted with a stone. explains it to wilson.