Three days. Three qi-surges. The interval was shrinking.

  The surge came at dawn on the first day. Wei woke gasping. His core visible through his shirt — the glow no longer limited to sleep. He dampened it. Three breaths, core locked, signature reduced. He sat breathing hard, hands between his knees. His Tremor was expanding: hands and forearms now. Both. Continuous.

  "I'm Fine," he said.

  "I didn't ask."

  "I know. I'm telling you anyway."

  On the second day, it was midday. We were walking. He had no warning. His gait stuttered — the brief disconnection between intention and execution. He caught himself. Stood. Steadied. Below his nose, a thin line of red from the left nostril ran down to his lips. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  It worsened on the third day. The surge was continuous. Not an event — a state. His core vibrating constantly, the hum now present at all hours.

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  Stability count: back to three.

  Three out of ten. Where ten was healthy and one was Xu Ran.

  He laughed.

  At a bird. A small, brown, mountain bird collided with a pine branch. It overcorrected and spiraled improbably to land on a rock with the expression of a creature pretending the landing was intentional.

  Wei laughed. A genuine sound I hadn't heard in weeks.

  "You're staring," he said.

  "I was watching the bird."

  "The bird left."

  "Then I was watching where the bird was."

  He gave me a look. Amused. Allowing it.

  His laugh suddenly sounded like plinging glass.

  "We're going deeper into the range," I said.

  "We're already in the mountains."

  "Higher. Deeper."

  "Why?"

  "Because nobody is out there."

  "And if I—" He stopped. The same broken sentence. The same unfinished thought. "If I—"

  "Then we're alone."

  "That's what you said last time."

  "The answer hasn't changed."

  He looked at me. Long. Then he shouldered his pack.

  "Okay," he said.

  We walked into deeper ranges where the air was thin and the rock was bare. Wei set the pace — faster than yesterday. As if the decision had loosened something. Or as if something behind us was gaining.

  Wind from ahead. Cold. Carrying nothing.

  Three. Out of ten. And falling. But walking.