By the time Chet wakes next morning, I’ve a fire going and coffee on the boil. Chet makes biscuits and we’ve got butter for them, but I can’t get anything down. All I manage is coffee.
We scout a spot for Dieter, deciding to put him just uphill from Bill Sims. I swing a pick as never before, finding hard labor suddenly to my liking. It takes much of the day, but we finally get six feet down. By then, the digging feels cursed by its dark purpose.
We wrap Dieter in his blanket after I’ve kissed him on the forehead, then carry him to his final rest. As we go along, I still can’t get my head around him being dead, no matter it’s him we carry. Part of me refuses to accept the awful turn of events while the other part, the practical part that demands I remain upright when I want to curl up on
