“That was all. I thought the old man shot me. When my eyes focused, I realized I was lying on my side. My mouth was open and I could feel the clay grit, taste the dirt that gathered in pasty clumps on the inside of my lips and stuck to my tongue. But I could see only a blob of yellow light. The old man must have shot me. I moved my arm. I ran my hand over my face, felt down along my neck, my chest. I rubbed across my belly, the waist of my pants, my legs. I could feel the straps of a backpack lo...oped over my shoulders. Think, Jack. I was wet, cold. Maybe I pissed myself or something when the old man shot me. But there was no blood. I closed my mouth. It was awful. And I could smell river water. I was staring into a flashlight. I lay on my belly, in the dirt at the edge of the river. I could hear the rush of the water. The Under. I fumbled for the light. My hand didn’t work right. It took me a couple attempts before I could pick it up, pivot the beam away from my face. I remembered. My knife lay pressed to the ground beneath the back of my forearm.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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