“Get out, Go!” He waved the bandana. They stood ground.

Finally he stood, his legs buckling and almost giving way.

Christ, do I need a freaking walker? he thought. Matt whipped the bandana and the crows took notice, squawking and flying off across Julip Road. One of them glared back towards the orchard with its beady eyes.

Matt stumbled into the shack, dehydrated and head pounding. Sensation crept up his left arm, but his lungs were heavy and his breath ragged.

I’m sorry Matthew, the little voice said. I’m so sorry.

In all that pain he stopped and stared at the truck. It stood upright, a beautiful symbol of defiance. Matt grinned. It even hurt to smile, but it was so worth it.

With great care he strained onto the bottom bunk, cradling his head with his hands. Flashes of white-hot agony crackled through his skull and along his spine.

No more of those, Matthew, the little voice said. No more. Get that aspirin from the shelf, stop some of the pain.

Matt mumbled something back, not sure of what he said.

Despite wanting to vomit again, he pulled himself off the bunk and limped to the shelf. Five aspirin went down his throat with water from the Black.

Good, that’s real good. That should take some of the edge off, the little voice said. Go lie down now, Matthew. I’m sorry my friend . . . so sorry to see you like this.

The mangy mattress and pillow provided comfort to his ravaged body. He drifted off into a stormy, black sea.

A gust of wind piped through a hole in the logs, waking him. Although his head still ached, Matt felt a semblance of normalcy. His limbs seemed to work okay, to, and he held up both arms and wiggled his fingers to prove it.

Good! I’m so happy for you, the little voice said. I was worried.

As he walked over to fish out a Kashi bar from his food stash, he heard a noise across the orchard, like birdsong. Matt held his breath and listened. The muffled cry amplified, mutating from bird call to a human voice pleading for help.

Matt limped out of the shack, snack bar dangling from his lips like a cigar.

“Someone, please help!” the voice cried out.

He hobbled north across the orchard, grass licking his jeans and slicking his boots. Up ahead in a depression came slight movement—a hand rising into the air, a green jacket sleeve. In a few seconds Matt was looking down upon a beat-up man in his fifties. The man had trimmed pepper hair, a matching moustache, and a wide face. A white patch on his vest read Michigan DNR. Blood trickled from a lump on his temple, and his nose looked broken.

“Thank God! Please help me,” the man said. “I think I broke my leg. I can’t feel my toes. Jesus.”