On the third attempt, Sam convinced his body that it could bend forward and retrieve the canteen. The water was tepid and tasted of minerals, but his parched throat didn’t care. He splashed some into one hand and rubbed it on his face, wincing when he touched his scrapes. Nevertheless, he felt better than he expected, or deserved. Well enough to realize that last night’s—it was just one night, wasn’t it?—thoughts about the old man had been unduly unkind.