You scan the landscape around you and spot a cluster of tall rocks a little way to the west. You know that desert jackals make their lairs in such formations. Jackal meat isn't very nutritious and tastes a little like solid vomit, but it's better than nothing.
You consider how best to approach the task ahead. You have only your revolver, which is a poor hunting weapon: it will require you to get uncomfortably close to your prey. You know how to move slowly and silently, but your scent will betray you. If you want to get close enough, you'll need to mask your scent. And there's only one way to do that.
Feeling a little ill, you scoop up some of the spoiled meet from Esme's tins and smear it over yourself. Your companions look on stunned, but after a little while, you are confident that your human musk has been adequately concealed. You set off for the rock formation, revolver in hand.
About half an hour later, you return to camp, the carcass of a jackal slung over your shoulder. You dump it by the fire, to the great admiration of your companions. Sam and Esme set about expertly skinning and butchering it while you get back to pitching your tent.
About an hour later, the sun has sunk below the horizon. The bleached red haze of the wilderness has cooled into dark purples and blues, and goosebumps cover your skin from the chilly night air. You wrap yourself in a blanket and sit down on an outspread rug by the blazing fire that Abdul has conjured into existence, helping yourself to a cup of gritty coffee and a bowl full of rich, nutritious meat stew. You will not go to sleep hungry tonight.
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