The first time I realize I am tired, it is not dramatic.
There is no collapse. No sharp pain. No warning flare of power burning itself out too fast. It arrives quietly, like a hand settling on the back of my neck while I am busy with something ordinary. I am slicing roots into a pot of water that is already steaming, counting the cuts because it gives my hands something to do, and my grip loosens just enough that the knife slips.
“Careful,” Adam calls from outside the shelter.
I stop before it can fall.
That is the strange part. My reflexes still work. My body still responds instantly. Nothing is wrong in the way I am used to wrong feeling. The tiredness lives somewhere else. Behind my eyes. In the space between thoughts. In the effort it takes to keep choosing not to push.
“I’ve got
