The wagon descended the mountain switchbacks under the afternoon sun, bumping across the frozen wheel ruts with steady momentum.
Old Man Hans sat upright on a burlap sack filled with coarse salt, his bandaged leg stretched out stiffly before him.
He endured the first mile upon the goose-down cushion Vella provided before shoving the soft padding aside in disgust.
"Take this goose down away."
"You need to elevate your wounded leg, Uncle Hans," Vella scolded gently, checking his linen bindings.
"Soft cushions make a warrior's spine turn to water," Hans grumbled, resting his calloused hand upon his knee. "A sack of curing salt gives honest support without coddling an old man's aching bones."
"Some habits never die."
"You complained about the exact same cushion forty years ago when the previous garrison evacuated," Vella reminded him with a fond smile.
"It was useless forty years ago, and it is useless today!"
