“Wet. Bright. Finn didn’t dare open his eyes. Where was he? What was he? He summoned his other senses. He was lying on grass: he could feel it prickling his naked body. The wetness was dew. The brightness was sunshine. A blackbird was singing. Morning had come. It was over. He opened his eyes and saw the wagon. “No,” he said, in confusion. “I wasn’t dreaming. It did happen.” He tried to sit up, but his body ached so much, he couldn’t manage it. Finally, he rolled over onto his belly and pushed h...imself up. He looked around. There were animal tracks beside him. There was blood too, though it wasn’t his own. The wound had healed. Nothing remained except the silver scar. So where had the blood come from? He pulled himself to his feet, using the wagon as support. Oh! It was no dream. His legs had surely been running all night. He scanned the glade, noted a cloud of flies, and stumbled toward it. There he found what he was looking for. A dead deer, half eaten, lay in the long grass beneath the trees.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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