Dalton
After I put Layla to bed, I return immediately to the shed. I look down at the dead man with a mix of pity and rage. He’s not much older than me. He was handsome, with blond hair and eyes that used to be blue. But now, they’ve started to decay into his skull. The skin is flayed from his fingers, revealing bone, but the rest of him is in surprisingly good shape considering how long he’s been here.
I remember him. Henry, that was his name. Henry Swanson, from Mississippi, an architect apprentice who never made it back after traveling here to visit his girlfriend.
The last night nurse.
I wrap a bandana around my nose and mouth and crouch, picking up the knife Layla discarded upon discovering the poor bastard.
That’s what he is, too. Discarded. This wasn’t his fault.
I wonder
