The man crawls across the desert. Six days since the horse
broke leg and tossed him in a dry ravine. The outpost was another six
walking, and the canteen empty last Thursday, or so he guessed.
He hobbles, then stumbles, then crawls. A man aging forty
years in half a week. The sun beats with infinite fuel, ceasing only for the
night, when everything living comes and eats the only fool moving in the sand.
He had a map, but used it to clean his ass after tearing it
up in frustration.
Now water was a
word not formable with his mouth, dry as it was. Parched impossible to speak.
He reaches again, fingers spangled with dry cholla spines. His denimed
legs tattered and ragged and all but gone.
A birdcall, then another. And more. So he falls asleep, the lovesong of the buzzard
barely registering in his crispy ears.
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