His expression was as blank as that of the head of elk that hung above him, the empty look of the lifeless.
If only his wounds had occurred in the wilderness, he thought, in a battle of life and death, survival of the species. His only connection to the forest outside was the paper cup he filled with coffee and sugar, his only tribe the wreath of twisted men who surrounded him, their wizened hands becoming carbon, fingers made of matchsticks.
He rubbed his hands together, appreciating the warmth of the friction, and wondered who knew how to start a fire these days.
© 2008 J.L. Steinhoff
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