Roger sat on the beach, his hand holding a stick, drawing straight lines on the ground, then destroyed them, and drew them again. His feet were crossed, one of his arms limply lied on his thighs. His face paint was fading, but he did not care. He just kept repeating the pattern of drawing and destroying. His dark hair flew free in the wind, while his black eyes only cared about what was being drawn on the ground. The dark circles under his eyes were getting more intense in color as sleepless nights increased.

It was not really what someone would call a sunny day. There was little sunlight coming through the thick gray clouds. The humid and cool wind brushed against his bare back, but he was so used to it that he did not feel the chills people would normally feel running down his spine. This weather actually brought Roger a quite pleasant feeling. The sky darkened a little more, and the wind was stronger. Roger brought his knees against his chest, buried his head between the knees, and kept going. He sighed, his face felt hot for a reason he had long forgotten. Time was no longer a concept to Roger, and he let himself fall in the continuous loop of drawing and destroying. He was not there anymore.

In front of his eyes was a fire, with a pig carcass on top of it, half burnt, half raw, for the boys cooking them were too weak to turn it over. He saw himself circled by boys from his choir, the little boys, and his chief. They were stabbing the sand just a few milimeters from him with the butts of their sticks. His hair stuck to his face, along with the humid sand. His face paint was fading, for the hunt had taken place a fairly long time ago. The boys encircling him suddenly switched the target to Robert, as the chief ordered. He quickly stood up, took his spear and joined them. The fun continued until an obscure figure walked out of the jungle. The boys, except for him, assuming the figure was the beast, came for that figure, the spears' pointy ends against it. They stabbed, bit, tore, as the figure screamed for mercy. Roger stood there, silence overwhelming him. He tried to move in to the circle to save the figure, but his body denied to move.

Roger's lips shivered, and moved lightly to say a name.

"S.."

The raindrop awakened Roger. He felt another cold drop falling on his hair, then his back, then the back of his palm. He did not care, and kept on drawing on the sand, now wet with water from the rain. Roger dropped the stick, then wrapped his arms around his knees, buried his head deeper within the knees, and closed his eyes. The rain quickly became heavier, but he still sat there by himself, with his drawing fading, and the small stick being washed away by the waves hitting the beach. He felt like the drops of water falling from the sky were whipping his back hard, and he let them do it. All of the sudden, he remembered the reason why his face felt hot, but he could only murmur the name to himself.

..

Roger woke up feeling himself being carried on someone's back. He inhaled the sandy scent before opening his eyes, only to see the strands of red hair flying free, almost in his eyes. He glanced down to see a sunburnt neck, and a little glimpse of the freckled back. Roger opened his mouth, but his throat felt like burning, and he could not say anything, so he closed it. That was when he realized his throat was not the only part of him that was burning, his whole body was. Roger turned his head right, the sight of a moving figure with a deep tan and broad shoulders told him that it was Maurice. He noticed that his hair was sticking into his forehead, and his throat, besides from burning, was being tickled by an irritating sensation. He tried to hold it in, but it became even more unbearable.

"Just couch all you like Roger," said the chief, his voice sounded a bit annoyed, "coughing while being carried on the chief's back is a privilege. Enjoy while it lasts."

Roger, finally getting agreement from his chief, started coughing. His face grew red and hot as he forced the air out, even though he also felt like he was bawling his throat out.

"You're one big heap of trouble, Roger." Jack continued, "who in the world stays in the rain then passes out and almost gets washed away anyway." There was still that bit of annoyance in his voice, though it was much softer than before.

"He cares about you Rodge," said Maurice jokingly, "congrats, you have won the chief's heart."

"And you shut up," the chief scowled, his face invaded by a bit of embarassment, "if it's not for carrying Roger I would've slugged you by now."

They arrived at Castle Rock shortly after that. Roger was still coughing hard when Jack put him down to the ground, his back against the rocky wall of the cave. Roger was half-asleep again, and he heard Jack's voice ordering the littluns to do something, but he could not figure out what his chief was saying. His eyelids were almost all the way closed, he stopped coughing, and his breathing regulated. His black hair was still sticking to his forehead, but he took no notice. Roger fell asleep with his body still feeling like it was on fire.