It’s black before my eyes. A bandage is wrapped around my head, its material cooling my eyelids. I slowly get on my knees, stretch out my hands and feel the moss. It’s soft, soft like a pillow, I think, and I remind myself that I’m tired. If the moss were dry, I could lie down. I hear the highway rushing in the distance. I hear the wind in the first, delicate leaves, a rustling like footsteps. Only after a while do I realize that no one is coming. That no one but the woman next to me is watching as I try to find my way between the trunks by listening and feeling.

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