I was camping in the Adirondacks or hiding. I’d killed a chubby squirrel fed by tourists on the Appalachian trail, else I don’t know why it wandered into the middle of my path. Maybe God put it there or fate. I was tired and I was hungry and it certainly felt that way. It didn’t take much to kill it and that night I had the adipose thing snapping on the spit.

I had killed a man or he had run in front of my car. He was a lawman, I was a bootlegger, so either way it didn’t look good for me. I moved my camp and kicked the branches and drank day after day waiting for more squirrels and lawmen to jump in front of me and do what they pleased.

I was tired and I was hungry and the thought of nobody coming to get me, turning hermit and living with the hillbillies drinking mountain dew did not entice. I wanted to get it over with. My body on the other hand felt like running a little more, so I let it.

It ran me west out of Appalachia and through Chicago. I got a job in Chicago as a bootlegger and drove clear to California expecting more things to stop me, but they never did. The only roads blocked by running cops and squirrels were in my dreams. I moved stakes and drank day after day waiting for the dream to be real and a chance to drive a clear road for one night. I never thought I was that hard to find but nobody ever came looking.