museum Cold Water, Firm Grip

Stiff limbs. Then... warmth. I blink. Heavy beast looms above, tusks curved high in frozen roar. Below me, fake mud and murky water. I do not run. I watch. I turn my wrist slowly. The wooden spear shaft shifts in my palm. Dry reed floats near my knee. I press spear tip against it—it breaks beneath the stone point. Real tension. I am loose. Breath fills chest. Safe for now, watching.