Sometimes I think I will never love again. But then the sun rises, and my brother smiles, and a cool breeze caresses my face. Sometimes I think I will never be whole again, or alive, and then the universe flicks my forehead.

Fundamentally, I am broken. I know that much. I quit the hunting life — which I’d for years felt as though I needed, like an addiction — because my younger brother Sam begged me. Every day I try to fill that void. I am strong; I know that, too. But grief is stronger, and I feel the loss of hurt and harm like a phantom limb.

Instead of hunting, now, I’ve turned to more… recreational outdoor activities. Walking, fishing, those sorts of things. I don’t know why I always feel the need to run from something. Run from my own blood, if I could.

I decide to take a pit stop during my walk and swing by a grocery store. We’re running out of most things at Sam and I’s apartment — shame on me for ever agreeing to live in one of those.

Just a few items to grab. Then I can go home.