The woods were oppressive, restricting his movement, disorienting his sense of direction. He clutched his side as if trying to keep in his very life force.
The strains of sweet home Alabama told him that the bandits were on the prowl. He cursed himself for about the millionth time for getting into this position. He’d been running for years, from those that loved him and from his own inner gremlins.
He staggered into a clearing and saw a cabin. It looked long abandoned, like most property in this area now. Out front various detritus littered what once would have been a front lawn. Now it was ramshackled and overgrown. A watering can led on its side and the first specks of frost attached themselves like barnacles to its plastic surface, glittering crystals in the light of the moon.
Benson barked from the porch. Most people had left their houses in a hurry so there was a chance he might find something of use for his injuries in the bathroom. So he nodded to his trusty long dead dog, who had led him here, and ventured into the house in search of salvation.