The machete he’d used to bushwhack his way out of Binghamton was still in his hand, and every day he discovered new nettles and brambles against which to use it. But even as he swung and slashed and lopped he wondered if his bushwhacking might one day outlive its original purpose, might become an exercise born of habit rather than a survival strategy born of need. He wondered if his defenses, which he’d always assumed would be temporary, might in fact never come down.
