Time seems to have slipped beyond your grasp. You could have sworn that it was only a week ago you left the campsite, leaving the bits of food you didn’t feel like taking home for the deer and raccoons. How is it that you wandered, unfocused for this long?
You remember bits and pieces. The truck stop, a fight in a diner where a man got body slammed through a table, soap carvings of Victorian’s dying from diseases. Surely you lost a page in the calendar.
You charge your phone for the first time in what has to be 3 weeks, you’re not a social person and the places you’ve been, the phone wasn’t getting a signal anyway.
A voicemail: the word’s “job abandonment” float around the car, hovering like a lead ghost.
Oh well, you hated that job anyway. You’ll just have to go back to Madame Zofia’s and help her carve soap tragedies.
Too bad you never got to tell Joan to fuck off.