Late afternoon was his morning today, and it was a grim headache. He eyed their camp blearily, looking for her. Their meager things, stuffed in plastic grocery bags, scattered around the nest they’d made in a stand of sumac by the river.
Why’d she go without him?
His head rang, the light too bright on the water. Gichii-ziibi; what the old ones called the big river. Mississippi now. Cars buzzed across the bridge above, heading wherever it was that people went. Work? Home? It made no difference. Escape was what all that movement was about, escape from those things that made you crazy, that threatened you. Hooch in the brush seemed like escape. Their camp at the river too, and those people in their cars didn’t know it, maybe didn’t know empty bottles, but lived empty too. Their movement their disease.