I startle. I’m not home. Or rather, I am. But home isn’t what it used to be.
My eyes open, and I take in the ripped tent canvas with numb recognition.
This is home now. Home, sweet shitty-falling-apart tent home.
With the way the army green fabric of my tent is wiggling in the breeze, I figure it’ll need repairing inanother month—or maybe even sooner, if I’m as unlucky with this as I have been in the rest of my life.But there’ll be no avoiding it, unless I’d like to wake up with eyes in the holes, peering through andseeing what they can steal from me.
One night, when I woke up to pee, that’s what I saw in the opening I forgot to zip closed: eyes. Pupilswide and blank with trauma-induced madness, budding sociopathy, or just plain garden-varietyindifference. Who knows the real
