234.3

Viv's son Oz stands by the clearing of effigies behind the lodge, whittling one of his own. He seems deep in thought—whatever he was trying to carve, he's lost the shape of it, whittling the dead branch down to its core.

You ask him what's on his mind, snapping him from his thoughts. "What? Oh. Nothing, really," he says. You sense that he might share his thoughts if given time. You sit nearby and look out at the glade. Oz sets the misshapen totem aside several others, then starts again with a fresh cut of wood.

Clear Oz with  to sit with Oz until he's ready to talk.