A hundred breaths of walking. A thousand breaths of rest. He wanted to rest longer, and he couldn’t let himself.

A hundred breaths of walking, not toward his destination now. His heart hammered in his chest as he took those hundred breaths and the steps that went with them, because he now knew the danger he faced.

He put himself in the most open space he could. Predators would see him here, but if he didn’t choose this location, then the scavengers would get him.

He collapsed, and the exhaustion and pain that ran through him was enough that the feeling of hitting the dirt didn’t even reach his thoughts.

He faded in and out from there. Cold and wet, then cold and dry. Then movement. Covered in a soft wrapping—too soft to be any protection. His half-formed left hand gripped the material.

When he came to again, he felt better. He felt nourished, and he felt rested. There were few aches and pains, no longing for water. He moved the material that covered him aside, and found a distance between the soft material he had been resting on and the ground below.

He landed, and he fell, but he made little noise.

Second imperative: migrate.

They caught him before he could get there. People like the ones that had been killing and burning, but without the coverings that were the same color and material from head to foot. Bigger people.

He struggled and fought, heard their utterances and knew no meaning in it. He saw their kin—a long, long line of people all migrating in their own way. To the wrong place. People with belongings gathered, moving at a crawl, unwary of the hard-shelled things that traveled along hard surfaces, so close to them.

He tried twice more to get where he needed to be, and on the third try, two of the people decided to confine him, imprisoning him in a large shell, with soft material within. This shell moved, and once he saw that it moved in the direction he needed to go, he relaxed. When they stopped he pointed with his fist, insistent. He knew the destination by heart, even though he knew so little else.

A deserted place, of shelters like the tents, only hard stone. Some towered high, others were squat and low.

His destination was down stairs. The grown ones with him tried to stop him, because now they were wary. He fought his way free, and he ran.

Down the stairs. A door, and a panel on the wall. Each bump on the wall produced a note when pressed, and they had to be pressed in the right order. It was imperative.