He corked the bottle and set it aside and crawled drunkenly to his pack. Frustrated inebriate, his hands confused by straps and buckles. He soon quit the struggle and lay back and faced the sky. The trees turned above him. When he closed his eyes, he felt sick. He moaned a little and spied the dancing giants through one reddened slit as if he was taking aim. “There is no singular David that could level you all, but He could with no effort, all or one at a time. And does, you know. He does it already.” Kozmin talked to the trees when he was sober too. The old man reached for the bottle but didn’t find it. No more for now. No more. If he found his pistol, he might shoot himself and it wouldn’t be an accident. “Might be.” Clumsy sot that he’d become, helpless really. Baby with a pistol. With regularity he waged these little wars on himself, no matter if someone had drowned or come close or not gotten wet at all. Search party celebration. Bellhouse is buying. Bellhouse has never given a thing away in his life.
