Dated Feb. 25th
He wakes up much, much too early, with his key and his dog tags imprinted on his cheek. He knows it's too early because the sun is shining, and given his hangover Skinny might need another couple of years to sleep this off. Hell, who knows, he might still be a little drunk: he certainly doesn't remember passing out... well, wherever he is. (Roadside ditch? It feels like a foxhole. Or the side of a dike.)
When he staggers back to the Homestead, he's got his feet, at least. Takes more than Mardi Gras to lay out a paratrooper. He's still wearing the clothes from last night, and somehow it isn't all quite as funny this morning. The task is simple, though: get a shower, get some breakfast, get someplace where no one can come up and bother him -- oh lord, his poor pounding head.
Skinny's efficient about getting cleaned up. When his mouth no longer tastes like death and his stomach isn't curdling in whatever rotgut he slung down his throat, he sets out walking. It'll do him good to exercise. Better than stewing, or thinking, or trying to piece together last night. The path he's climbing, up the hill and through the woods, isn't one he's taken before, but if he gets a little lost, so what? The island's only so big. Not like he can get too lost, and not like he won't be found.
The walk turns out to be one of his better ideas. Birds are singing, the sunlight's streaming through the branches, he's got fresh air in his lungs -- and everything just feels right. Peaceful. It almost feels like home. He feels like he could turn a corner and run right into--
He does. And he stops.
There's a shack in the clearing up ahead. Skinny clutches the key around his neck.
He knows exactly what a place like that is for.
With shaking hands, he slips the key with his name on it in the lock. He has to make sure. And once he has, there's nothing else to do: he tears off like a wildcat back through the woods, down the twisting path all the way to the Homestead. He makes straight for Webster's door: no point in pretending he's got more than one room to check.
"Guys!" he calls, pounding his fist on the door. "Guys! Get the hell up, I gotta show you something!"
When he staggers back to the Homestead, he's got his feet, at least. Takes more than Mardi Gras to lay out a paratrooper. He's still wearing the clothes from last night, and somehow it isn't all quite as funny this morning. The task is simple, though: get a shower, get some breakfast, get someplace where no one can come up and bother him -- oh lord, his poor pounding head.
Skinny's efficient about getting cleaned up. When his mouth no longer tastes like death and his stomach isn't curdling in whatever rotgut he slung down his throat, he sets out walking. It'll do him good to exercise. Better than stewing, or thinking, or trying to piece together last night. The path he's climbing, up the hill and through the woods, isn't one he's taken before, but if he gets a little lost, so what? The island's only so big. Not like he can get too lost, and not like he won't be found.
The walk turns out to be one of his better ideas. Birds are singing, the sunlight's streaming through the branches, he's got fresh air in his lungs -- and everything just feels right. Peaceful. It almost feels like home. He feels like he could turn a corner and run right into--
He does. And he stops.
There's a shack in the clearing up ahead. Skinny clutches the key around his neck.
He knows exactly what a place like that is for.
With shaking hands, he slips the key with his name on it in the lock. He has to make sure. And once he has, there's nothing else to do: he tears off like a wildcat back through the woods, down the twisting path all the way to the Homestead. He makes straight for Webster's door: no point in pretending he's got more than one room to check.
"Guys!" he calls, pounding his fist on the door. "Guys! Get the hell up, I gotta show you something!"