Tulie swung the stub end of the hatchet into the guy’s ear. He woke in moonlight and mosquitoes, but couldn’t move his hands to swat his neck. He looked past the black tops of trees, and stars. Though wrapped in the afghan, he began to shake and feel thirsty. His right ear ached in tinny quiet. His stomach felt a great hole, where he got shot, before coming upon the old lady.
The birds woke him again, foggy-minded. Against his feet he made out the flat base of the dolly. Beneath him, the metal ribs of the dolly, lowered horizontal with the ground, felt cold. The yellow canvas straps that had held the fridge kept him taut to the cart. ‘That cunt,’ he thought. A chant rose with the crescendo of chickadees, lifting with mist, from guttural syllables, Though I may speak in tongues, I am only a clanging gong. Perhaps his last rites. He floated above his funeral. Without love, I am nothing. He hadda be dead. ‘That nut-bag wheeled me into the woods,’ he breathed slow so she wouldn’t see, in case he was really breathing. The hole under his hand began to swallow his hand. His arm. His shoulder and neck dropped away to his center, sucked by gravity into a puny, hard mass.