Every barking dog and blowing elm branch makes me want to die. I’m a little nervous to use our one needle because it was inside of Typewriter but KK sterilizes it with a lighter and I guess I don’t have an option. We don’t have enough to fuck around snorting it. I shoot half a teener. So does KK. We pump Typewriter full because who knows how much he needs. He’s feeling better, sitting upright, making jokes about his fat-ass calves finally losing some girth. Me, I’m making mental lists: 1. Scante 2. Shelter 3. Food/water 4. Ammo This list is pretty much the same one I made five days ago. Fuck, it’s pretty much the same one I’ve made over the last five years. Motherfuckers can’t kill me, Typewriter says. Pretty close, though, I say. Close ain’t good for shit, bro. I’m counting rounds. We have two shotguns. Sixteen shells total. Typewriter has a pistol with a full clip and an extra mag. I tell them to empty their pockets. KK dumps out a money clip with her ID and debit card.
