Flak remained like that for the rest of the day, and another night, occasionally dozing off, and only leaving the cave when nature called, and in all that time, Shrapnel’s state hadn’t changed. He began to wonder if there was any chance at all to survive jet withdrawal at all without medical help, because he couldn’t get either food or water into him. The next morning, however, brought relief. Shrapnel opened his eyes and asked for water.

Flak was at his side in an instant, after just having had a piss, and offered him a bottle. It had rained a little last night, and he had put the empty bottles outside; thankfully, the rain had lasted long enough to partly fill them again. Shrapnel drank greedily and muttered a hoarse thanks before his head fell back again.

He passed out again shortly afterwards, but it seemed to Flak as if the violent bouts of trembling had stopped. He didn’t dare to allow himself too much hope, however, it might be that the worst was yet to come. He simply didn’t know.

But at noon, Shrapnel woke up again, and for the first time in three days, his eyes seemed clear.
“How are you?” Flak leaned forward to peek into his face.
Shrapnel blinked into the sunlight that fell into the cave. “My head hurts like shit.”
“And otherwise?”
Shrapnel thought this through for a moment. “I’ve stopped freezing.” Then he looked at Flak again. “And shivering.”
“You think you’re getting over it?”
“Maybe”, Shrapnel replied cautiously. “I’ve never tried to go cold before.”
“You feel like you could eat?”
“Not really.” Shrapnel tried to sit up, but his head was swimming. “But I think I’ll have to.”

Flak dug into the bag. “Nothing left but a can of cram.”
“I’ll give it a try.”
He ate cautiously, and when he felt his stomach begin to complain after a few mouthfuls he stopped, waiting for the urge to vomit, but it didn’t come. When his stomach had calmed down again after a little while he tried a little more, and when his stomach failed to complain, even more. He began to feel a little better. “I think it’s all right.”
“Good.” Flak sat down beside him and checked his gun. “I didn’t want to leave you alone in here, otherwise I would’ve gone after one of the molerats I spotted nosing around here.”
Shrapnel nodded weakly and peeked at the sunlight outside again. “How long have I been out?”
“A day and a night.”
“No wonder I need to piss. Give me a hand up?”
Flak wordlessly got up and extended a hand to him, but Shrapnel was still so weak that he had to lean heavily onto Flak to make his way out.

Once he was done, he tried to stand on his own, which worked, for a given value of. He wasn’t able to walk yet, though. “I feel like shit, buddy.”
“You look like shit, too.”
“And what now?” Shrapnel turned to look at Flak, and the latter shrugged. “I somehow need to get that collar off you, but I haven’t got the tools any more. Those are in Falls, and I don’t precisely care to go back there right now.”
Shrapnel chuckled mirthlessly under his breath. “Quite so. So what?”
Flak shrugged again. “Find help somewhere. We don’t have to tell people we’re a raider and a slaver, might not increase disposition towards us. Mercenaries, though...” He shrugged again and produced a pack of smokes. He offered Shrapnel one who took it with, as he realised, still somewhat shaky fingers. After offering him fire and lighting up his own smoke, Flak continued as he slipped the lighter back into his pocket. “Mercenaries might run into slavers and lose. I managed to get you out, and now... well, now we’re stuck.