Luke's hands shook slightly as he flicked the switch on his left-hand glove, activating the flamethrower mechanism. A small, controlled burst of fire shot from the glove, igniting the pile of twigs and dried leaves he had gathered. He watched as the flames licked up the makeshift campfire, the warmth washing over him in a wave of comfort. Normally, he might have started the fire the traditional way, but tonight he was too tired to even consider it.
Satisfied with the fire, Luke settled back and rummaged through his shoulder bag. His fingers brushed against a few small, paper-wrapped packages. He pulled them out, untying the vines that held them closed and unfolded the paper to reveal dried strips of meat. Preserved food—chosen specifically for moments like this when fresh provisions were out of reach. It was practical, though not particularly appetizing, and there was no telling how safe it was after all this time. But it would have to do.
