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May 2, 2005
I made it to the barn ahead of the snow, my breath busting from my throat. I don't know which made me more tired, the running or the killing. I stack the hay bales to give me a pocket of shelter and crawl inside. Exhausted, numb from the cold, I feel my body warm the straw coffin. Just have to sleep, my toes tingle with half warmth. The fragrance of the hay becomes the smell of wet fur. The bloodhound is licking me awake, harmless to his quarry. Voices. Scared voices, whispering caution. Men rightly scared by what they saw.