Ten rotations later they reach the opposite shore, the banks of which are a gentle slope rising up from thick mud to thick green weeds, bugs buzzing over both. Birch trees rise up a just six feet away, their straight trunks rising to branches that arch over Meda and Masou’s heads. Heavy bags are under their eyes, and they crawl out of the canoe onto the shore and then roll over on their backs on the grass.
“I feel sick.” Meda swallows and closes her eyes.
“I’m just glad nothing happened the second night. I feel as though I’ve been rowing for a week.” He groans and puts his right arm over his eyes. Meda sits up and brings her legs up to her chest, hands sinking into the thick grass on either side of her.
“What do we do now?”
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