I take inventory, touching each thing as I do. My fireboard and broken whiskey bottle top I couldn’t quite part with dangle from my belt loops, flint and Davey’s knife in my pocket, a reassuring bulge, parts of my dead foot still hanging in a sandwich bag. His tarp is folded neatly and tucked into the back of my jeans, filling the empty space my shrinking body has left behind. My blanket is tied around my throat, what’s left of Davey’s hat clinging around my ears. I’m moving. But Lord do I wish there was someone to carry me.
