Wind was hungry too.

So he sharpened a straight stick, scraping it sharp against a rock and the edge of his metal key. Then he slid into the shallows on his paipo and learned — splash by splash, miss by miss — to lie very still where the fish flashed, and wait, and spear them. Some he even caught with his bare hands.

The first fish took all morning.
The second took a few minutes.
By the third one, it took no time at all — Wind could catch his lunch faster than he could make a sandwich.

Makos, there, always there. It was scary, every time. It was food, every time.