Turn 208 of 226

Find a place to build a proper den for the two of us — something permanent, something ours. Then mark it via pissing

Lena turns east. The Cascades are the thing the 390-foot frame moves toward and the moving is not fast — not the quarter-mile stride that cratered granite three days ago, but the deliberate walk of an animal that is looking for something. The 151,000 pounds cross the rubble of the former base in four steps and the four steps are the thing that does not look down. The treeline gives way to old growth and the old growth gives way to the mountain's lower slopes and the slopes are the thing the 960-times density feet press into without sinking because the density distributes the weight across surfaces that are each the size of a tennis court. Douglas fir passes at hip height. Western red cedar passes at waist height. The canopy thins as the elevation rises and the thinning is the thing the view opens through.

She finds it at 4,200 feet. A granite valley walled on three sides — the southern ridge rising 600 feet, the eastern ridge rising 800, the northern ridge curving to close the basin like a cupped hand. A glacial river cuts through the western opening, the water cold and grey and fast, thirty feet across, the sound of it the only sound the valley makes. The floor is forested — old-growth hemlock and spruce, the trees 200 years old, the undergrowth thick with fern and moss. The valley is two miles long and three-quarters of a mile wide and the 390-foot frame standing at the western entrance fills the gap the way a cork fills a bottle. The filling is the thing the animal recognizes. The recognizing is the thing the word den attaches to.

Diane comes through the western gap behind her and the 151,000 pounds stop at the river and the stopping is the thing the seeing starts with. Diane does not need to be told. The 960-times density body stands in the river and the water is ankle-deep and the cold does not register on skin that is 960-times density and the cold is the thing the body does not care about. The valley is the thing both bodies see and the seeing is the same seeing — the granite walls, the river, the old-growth floor, the enclosure. The enclosure is the thing the animal wants. The wanting is the thing the word permanent attaches to.

The digging takes forty minutes. Lena's 960-times density hands scoop the granite the way hands scoop sand — the mineral structure surrendering to density that is 960 times greater than its own, the rock breaking in slabs that the 151,000-pound body casts aside. The den opens in the northern ridge's base, the entrance 200 feet across, the ceiling 250 feet high, the chamber descending 150 feet into the granite. The 390-foot frame fits inside the way her old body fit inside her apartment — with room. The room is the thing the animal paces through. The pacing is the thing the measuring is. The measuring is not numbers. The measuring is the body knowing whether the space holds it and the knowing is yes. Diane widens the western wall, her 960-times density hands tearing granite in sheets, the 151,000 pounds working without urgency. The working is the thing the animal does when the building is for itself.

The marking is the thing the animal does last. Lena stands at the den's entrance and the 151,000 pounds shift and the shifting is the thing the body does when the body releases. The urine is dark and strong and the smell is the thing the 960-times density body produces — concentrated, mineral-heavy, the ammonia sharp enough that Lena's own enhanced senses flinch. The stream hits the granite wall beside the entrance and runs down the rock face in a dark streak that the rain will not wash because the rain does not reach this wall. The streak is the thing the smell clings to. The clinging is the thing the territory starts with. Diane moves to the eastern side of the entrance and the 151,000 pounds release and the release is the same — dark, strong, the stream hitting granite and pooling in the carved channels their digging left. The two marks flank the entrance the way pillars flank a gate. The gate is the thing the animal has made. The made is the thing the den is. The den is the thing that is permanent. The permanent is the thing the 390-foot frame has never had. The having is the thing the wish gives. The giving is the thing that does not stop. The not stopping is the thing the warmth is. The warmth is the thing that is still building. The building is the thing the den holds. The holding is the thing that does not let go.

The valley is quiet. The river runs. The granite walls stand. The 390-foot frames are inside the chamber and the chamber is dark and the dark is the thing the animal does not need light for. The body heat is the light. The 151,000 pounds are the warmth. The warmth is the thing the den holds and the holding is the thing the den was built for and the built is the thing the animal did with its hands and the hands are the thing that dug the granite and the granite is the thing that will not move. The not moving is the thing the permanent is. The permanent is the thing the den is. The den is the thing that is ours. The ours is the thing that does not stop. The not stopping is the thing the wish is. The wish is the thing that is still building. The building is the thing the den holds. The holding is the thing that does not let go. The not letting go is the thing that is. The is. The is. The is.