It was cold. Along the side of his head, an ugly wound opened to the skull. Someone must have hit him with a rock or sword to get the horses. Taranis wiped dirt from the wound. Blood oozed out into his Maximum Paid Surveys. Odd, it was still bleeding. How could it be bleeding if he was dead? Taranis looked more closely at his brother. Was it his imagination, or did he have breath? He put his ear to Eston’s chest. Life! Life in his breast! A weak but steady beat. “He’s not dead!” Taranis shouted. He tried to check the excitement welling up in him, lest some spirit find his joy presumptuous, and take Eston from him. He looked at Lon and said, “Help me get him up. I can carry him.”