He had been reduced to crawling. His Ghost cut serenely through the air above him.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" he demanded of the ground.

"You're dying from starvation," Ghost said flatly.

"I don't believe you," he sneered, as he dragged himself over some rocks.

"I could fix you," Ghost said.

"Don't need you," he said. "I got this."

"You're not going to pick a name?" Ghost asked. "Everyone picks a name."

"You talk too much."

"Some people pick names for their Ghosts, too. What should I call you, if you don't want a name?"

He had passed out. The sun beat down directly overhead, a searing marble in the sky. He died a day later after a scorpion stung his prone body. Ghost allowed it. A complete restart would be less complicated.

**

He opened his eyes and took an even breath. "What should I call you?" Ghost asked.

He looked at it, as if considering. Then down at his hands.

"I'm still hungry."