Fifty-EightHe woke to screaming pain. Pain in his shoulder blades, stiff and sore from lying on sharp rocks, hot, prickling shards shooting up his legs. He rolled away from the rock that was pushing into his back and drew up his knees as he moved. At least his legs weren’t numb anymore, but they were heavy as lead.
He lay dumbfounded on his side — barely any more comfortable with his hip now resting on a sharp pointed rock — and grasped the significance of that one move, no more complicated than turning over in bed.
His throat was dry, very dry. His ribs still hurt like hell and he could feel dried blood on his shirt. The sun was up, the air was warm, and getting warmer. He could hear the ear-teasing whirr of cicadas in the bushes. And he could move his legs; he could feel again.
It was
