Day Thirty-Five: Rebirth (Part Two)

The search for small trees went rather smoothly, though I had no idea how many I would need to complete my plan. Repeating the same mechanical actions felt a bit monotonous. I didn’t bother to count them; I simply broke off the fallen saplings out of habit and dragged them away.

“It doesn’t matter—let’s just build something temporary for now. Constructing a proper treehouse isn’t something that can be accomplished in a day or two,” I thought, brushing off my hands as I decided to look for some vines.

The vines I needed were quickly gathered into a heap; they grew everywhere. It occurred to me that, with more time, I could try weaving baskets or something similar. For now, my mind was already conjuring up images of what the finished treehouse would look like.

According to my plan, the little house would have two levels: the lower level could store firewood and serve as a kitchen and storeroom, while the upper level would be raised above the ground, keeping it dry, waterproof, and free from insects. Just imagining such a living space in this environment filled me with joy.

The saplings varied in length—the longest barely five meters, most around three. Of course, I’m referring only to the trunks, which were generally about as thick as an arm—just what I needed.

Next came a more arduous task: I had to knock or cut off the branches from each trunk with a wrench or my Swiss army knife. It was exhausting work. After finishing just two trees, I was already panting, but I gritted my teeth and persevered. By evening, I had finally trimmed all the branches from the dozen or so saplings.

In my busyness, I’d forgotten my hunger. Only when I stopped did I feel thirsty and tired. Little Black was nowhere to be seen; he must have gotten hungry and, seeing me so occupied, had gone off to hunt for his own food.

I gnawed on a few fruits first. Whether it was my hunger or my mood, they tasted delicious again. My first priority now was to make a fire, but that was no longer a challenge. I returned to the collapsed hut, dug out all the useful items, and carried them in one go to the site of my future treehouse.

This time, I used only a third of the gunpowder from a bullet to start the fire, carefully sealing away the rest for emergencies. After all, every use diminished my supply. Once my immediate troubles were behind me, I planned to seek other ignition methods; this one was hardly sustainable.

As dusk gathered, I began to worry about Little Black’s safety—he still hadn’t returned.

But before I could finish the thought, Little Black appeared, a plump rabbit clamped in his jaws. He wagged his tail furiously, dropped the rabbit by the fire, and then dashed over, circling around my legs. This little guy was clearly addicted to cooked meat. I shook my head in amusement.

Though my butchering skills weren’t as refined as a master chef’s, a few deft cuts were all I needed to clean the rabbit. Soon, the skin and meat were separate, the four legs laid aside, and the rest of the meat stripped from the bones.

As usual, I made rabbit soup and roasted rabbit legs. To be honest, this rabbit was fatter than any I’d cooked before. As it roasted over the fire, juices sizzled and dripped onto the coals, filling the air with crackling sounds.

With practice, my technique had improved. I rotated the legs by hand, cutting along the tendons to release the meat. Locked-in juices began to drip away; though it affected the texture a little, it sped up the cooking and prevented the outside from burning while the inside remained raw. This method wasn’t born of whim, but from trial and error—a balance between flavor and practicality.

The result was rabbit legs with crisp skin and tender meat. Though some moisture was lost, the difference in taste was remarkable. Little Black kept licking his nose, but I was no better; my appetite, sharpened by recent illness, had my mouth watering.

The first roasted leg, of course, was reserved for my diligent hunter. I cooled it with my breath before tossing it to him. He devoured it before I had even finished roasting the second. Clearly famished, Little Black even crunched and swallowed the bones. He used to eat raw meat, but after tasting roasted rabbit, he wouldn’t touch the raw parts. The rabbit’s head and innards, which I’d set aside, were ignored completely. In the past, he would have eaten them all.

Three rabbit legs weren’t enough to satisfy him, so I boiled up a pot of rabbit soup for him. The final leg I kept for myself as a well-earned reward. I doubted Little Black would object—not that his opinion would matter much.

Now, the rabbit soup was no longer made as it was in the beginning. I snipped some seaweed into it, experimenting to see if it would remove the peculiar taste I’d noticed before.

The broth soon boiled, seaweed fragments rising and falling in the pot, infusing the meaty aroma with a salty tang from the sea. The scent was unique—a blend of savory meat and briny ocean. Still, I felt uneasy, worried that my innovation might have ruined the soup.

I dipped a finger in and tasted it on my tongue.

“Ah!” It was unexpectedly delicious—no strange aftertaste at all! Relieved, I was still uncertain whether Little Black would like it. Hopefully, he would.

Fortunately, as soon as I set the pot before him, Little Black wolfed it down, fishing out the chunks of meat first. Only when no more meat surfaced did he begin lapping up the broth, his tongue scooping it up as deftly as a spoon.

I hadn’t even finished roasting my rabbit leg before the pot was empty. Remarkably, he’d eaten the seaweed too. I’d always thought dogs didn’t eat seaweed; I’d only added it to remove the gamey smell, yet he’d gobbled it all up.

This time, he didn’t eye my roasted rabbit leg. Instead, he trotted off to the suitcase by the fire—his makeshift doghouse—curled up, and prepared to sleep.

As for me, the rabbit leg only half filled my stomach. I ate a few more fruits before I felt sated. I didn’t rest immediately. Used to sleeping in the little hut, I found it hard to relax in the open air, but there was no other choice tonight.

Since I couldn’t sleep, I decided to get some work done. I dragged the longest sapling to the base of the big tree, lifted one end onto my shoulder, and lashed it in place with vines. But I wasn’t satisfied with the height—at this level, I’d have to stoop to enter the lower floor, which wasn’t what I envisioned.

No, I needed to plan this properly. Abandoning my initial approach, I dropped the sapling, picked up a random branch, and began sketching on the ground...