The bird floated past again. George wondered what kind of bird it was. Was it a vulture looking for him or some other unlucky forest critter? Maybe it was one of the eagles who called Treasure Island home? It was big and it was all George had to take his mind off his current situation.
The last words Sara said to him as he left to roust some Ruffed Grouse haunted him now. He used to chuckle at her cellar hole fears. He was not laughing now. He wondered if her childhood fear of abandoned cellar holes and wells had finally jinxed him.
George looked down at his leg. It had started to stink. There was still pain, but it seemed further away now. Everything was further away, out of reach. He reached down for the umpteenth time and ran a finger over the bone sticking out of his leg. No longer in panic mode, George accepted the notion that his life was not his to control anymore. Some other whim, spiritual or physical, had his fate firmly in hand.
George looked up the dank walls of the old well again. The bird was gone. Daylight was slipping away. He leaned back against the stones lining this abandoned well and considered whether living another night in this hole was possible. He thought not. George smiled. He had thought the same thing last night and the night before. George closed his eyes for what he hoped would be the last time.