2021 riverrun Final PDF

and he was lucky he’d made it up to his winter place for the season while the night
hours were still plentiful. And though he was free to roam, the fundamental pleasure
of his existence was closed to him. Without the hunt he could still access the world,
still feel the wind change or hear the wolves sing out a greeting, but to what end?
Lacking his basic purpose he was divorced from nature in a way he’d never experienced.
Even when he did go out a thin but impermeable barrier stood constantly
between him and the world, as if he carried his big kitchen window wherever he
went.
The bag was sufficiently warm and he took it off the microwave’s glass tray
and cut a corner off and poured the blood into a large, vacuum-insulated travel mug
and took a sip. He always made sure to heat the blood a little extra. Victims, even
hypnotized ones, were usually in a state of agitation, which drove their core temperature
up, and he’d long ago acquired a taste for something hotter than plain old
98.6. But it did little to help the taste, the extra microwave time. The heavy bags
imbued the blood with a sour, plastic-y taste that he’d so far been unable to adjust
to. But beggars and choosing, et cetera.
He waited a few long minutes still at the window, thinking and sipping from
the mug. Another game he played—each night he tried to bear at least one more minute
in this pose, staring out, seeing nothing. Like a prisoner in solitary he had invented
a dozen ways to kill time, murder it, grind it to dust and burn down its home
and salt the earth. He’d always had an easy, pleasant relationship with time, drifting
gently along down the lazy river of years, no hurry, no end in sight. Now time had
turned against him and he was becalmed, sails limp. Nothing but endless, maddening
horizon on all sides.
He shook himself and tried to knock it off with the self-pity already. Another
sip, another slight grimace. He turned away from the window and left the kitchen
and plodded back down the long hallway with its bright, spotted paintings and entered
the living room and set the mug in one of the cupholders and plopped down on
the chaise of the couch. He sank back into its soft cushions and adjusted a pillow
behind his head. With angular, nimble fingers he took the remote from its place on
the coffee table and fired up Netflix. He thought he might take a walk later, around
five, maybe tempt the sun out from its hiding place under the horizon.
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