He sits up and looks down that road. For him, it only goes one way.

His back cries out as he bends to stand. For one second he’s afraid that his legs won’t support his weight. God wouldn’t it be pathetic if I fell over trying to stand, he thinks. He’d put his hand down into the dirt and wet grass and fall onto his side like an old man and there’d be no one to see it happen, no one to laugh it off to, except maybe that crow in the arms of the tree over there.

But he makes it up, leaning awkwardly to the side, arm with the pistol hanging just a little lower. He grips it for support and moves toward his car, still stopped in the gravel on the side of the road.

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