He dragged the blanket through the scat that had been dropped by the deer near the cabin stairs and then he draped the blanket over his shoulders so that it resembled a cape. He wheeled the camp’s only bicycle up the road to the main highway and set off. In a satchel he carried a few tomato sandwiches and some cookies and a sealer jar filled with fresh water and there were matches and a chocolate bar. To any onlooker, he would have appeared as a vagabond, or a wastrel from medieval times, a fender off of disease and pestilence, or the portent of pestilence itself arriving in a great clatter. He had read, in one of the books from the Doctor’s library, about escape and avoiding detection. A book written by a former marine who had a great fondness for possible invasions by marauding armies. Packs of dogs might be set upon him, and he would avoid detection. The empty tuna tins were to cover his scent. The scat as well. Watery trails were advised. Or fast-flowing rivers. There were no rivers but there was a ditch, almost dry, that sprouted cattails and reeds the height of his shoulders.
