This is a bit of a short one so I'm hoping to finish a second part today, if possible.

The crash replayed in his dreams: the branches of the tree canopy clawing through the fuselage skin, metal screeching like a dying animal as the plane was torn apart. The pressure of deceleration and the heat of the flames were always there, pressing down on him.

Jack awoke sore but rested, with Simon's plump, pedigree body atop him. His father sat on a rock by the cave entrance, running a claw down the length of a stick, peeling off a sliver of wood. Jack was surprised at how comfortable the man looked in that body, as if this was no different from a regular day at the office.

"It's morning already?" Jack croaked. His throat was raw from smoke and thirst. He tried to sit up, though his sleeping brother clung to him.

"The morning after, actually," his dad replied. "You've been asleep for over twenty-four hours." He didn’t turn his head, though his ears pivoted to track some noise beyond the waterfall. "Get up. We need to find supplies and other survivors. Take this. For beating through the underbrush. You're the strongest."

Jack found himself being handed the stick. He held it clumsily. It had been sharpened to a point. "Are we expecting the underbrush to beat back?"

Dad's expression darkened. "Perhaps. I keep hearing screams out there. But the fire burned itself out hours ago."