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You forget what you want to remember, and you remember what you want to forget.”
I am dead
I got to poop
He swung with him and leaved the pistol and fired. pg.66
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.”
The boy and his father find a bunker filled with food and water
The boy and his father find bad people with a truck
"He held him and floated him about, the boy gasping and chopping at the water, your doing good, the man said, your doing good
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