35

This was the cave that many had ran to for no other reason other than the news anchor popping a PCP tablet or two and making shit up as the marquee ran below his chest on the television. That goddamn television is reason for the season and fucking it all to hell, man. That was years ago, and the after effects had long since worn off, but I could finally go through what was left behind and examine artifacts lost to reason and reliability.

I mean, really, who the fuck would lug a bandsaw all the way up here?

You couldn't make this shit up. I set my bag down and kicked through a pile of debris until a doll's arm showed itself for the first time in years. I rummaged around and brought it closer to my dirty brow, having a moment of emotion I wouldn't dare have in public. I thought about its owner, either dead before the end or the victim of having some asshole of a sibling who thought it would be great to hide the one thing that make for a fuck during this time.

I put the doll in my bag. I stood there staring at the flap and decided against this theft. I took the doll out and put it on top of the pile, hoping that if for some reason the kid lived, she'd find it.

Then I thought that maybe the kid was a boy, and that made me feel all the worse. Given a time of uncertainty, a boy chose the one thing that wasn't expected of him to care about; there wasn't anything else to latch onto.

Then I thought maybe the boy's dad was some hard-ass that didn't want his son playing with dolls, and that made me all the more pissed.

I camped that night in the cave, keeping the fire low as to not attract strangers.

I woke up the next morning, ate my rations, and set off towards the nearest town to burn it to the ground.