“Trust your instincts” is what he was told. Right now his instincts are telling him he needs this food. Beyond the kitchen is a small living room with a single couch. He tosses all the food at the foot of the couch and groans as he settles down next to it, stretching out his wounded leg. I’m in the land of the dead, and I’ll join them if I don’t eat. His stomach proves surprisingly accommodating, and he finds that he’s hungry enough to consume the whole loaf and drink every last drop of milk. Weariness envelops him as soon as he’s finished, but he lacks the strength to lift himself up and lie
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