A sense of direction.
Surrounded by the inky Shropshire pre-dawn sky, I sat cross-legged in the road, hand torch clenched between my teeth, shining feebly over a map of the area. I'd fortunately been meticulous in marking up my desired route on the map, which is extra lucky, as the GPS I'd finally begun to rely on had just lost connection. I managed a(nother) stream of cursing around the torch without it falling, so that's something. My watch was looped around my vest, still running, still ticking away the hours, still chasing cutoff times. One lead connected it to the charging block in my pocket, while I'd been swapping another between phone and headlamp for a few hours, currently settled on the lamp. I frowned and leaned over to get a closer look at the map in a desperate attempt to identify my position on the planet, and the charging block flew out of my pocket for the first time of what would be many before this seemingly endless night was done. To say I was tired of being lost in ...