Still, though, there’s always … I peer out the tent flap and keep peering. The assholes are all too busydrinking beer and chortling over some dumb s**t one guy said to notice an eye popping out of sometent.
Okay, not nothing. There’s still other tents, other people. But not Wanda. I must not have noticedbefore, since I was so deep in my own distraught world, but her purple tent is gone.
I sink back inside my tent onto my knees and my heels, even though they ache, and don’t even botherto zip the flap closed.
One more time for the folks in the back: It’s not safe here anymore.
I go through the motions in a dull haze. The ones I’ve promised myself I would do dozens of times, thesame ones I’ve never gotten around to doing: packing up every single thing I own.
Chowder ‘help
