33) The good Doctor left me with a tidy pile of supplemental provisions. He gave me matches. Perhaps I will cook, should I come across a thing made palatable by such a process. A fire to warm me is also on my list. I am not bothered by the dark but I can feel cold. He gave me a pocket knife, one which includes a screwdriver and a bottle opener. First too little, now too much! Should I encounter a screw anytime soon I am too close to hostile locals. And all the bottles I've seen have already been opened and are empty but for a bit of rainwater and plaques of living filth. Some forms of life have no ambition. He's also included a salve for minor cuts and sunburn. I'm gunshot, for god's sake. Skin cancer? Even if a tumor should flourish on my forehead today it will be days beyond my ability to count before I succumb, an eventuality Dr. Creep would not permit in any case. Another jacket, to replace the one left behind at the pool, rounds out his gifts.
Still no map. Though I most likely could not make much use of it, for that I would have to know where I am; nevertheless, it would be a new way to view the monotony of a world of hillock, valley, scrub, playa, hillock, etc.

I stuff my new objects into my backpack. I try to stand. Not bad. The bandage is wet. I've another one on my back. The bullet must have passed clean through. More good news.
I step outside into the sunlight. There I see a sign attached to the wall of the hovel. Framing a foreign message are two illustrations, one of ducks on the wing and the other of a hunter taking aim at them. But what really gets my attention is that the sign in held in place... by screws. Just then birds burst from hiding into the air. Two guns fire, one right after the other. Birds fall from the sky. One bird, just a bit alive, takes an odd bounce, under its own power, into the roots of a wind-felled tree. Shouting, then. I duck back inside. Dogs, how I hate more than one dog at a time, bound headlong into the field. One easily recovers its prey. The other whines and frets. It runs an erratic pattern. More shouting. More whining. No luck. I cower as the hunters come into view and join in the search. They, too, stay wide of the roots. Birds are so small, let's forget that one and go elsewhere, 'ahora', I know the hunters are clucking to each other. They move on, but not before the dog that could not find its master's kill stops, perhaps drawn by the stink of my wound or of my grey flesh generally, or my heart, now pounding, and peers into the dark of the hovel. It stands and stares my way. I press so hard into the rear of the hovel that I can hear the boards strain. The hunter calls his animal. But it will not stand down. The man nears and yells again. Still it points my way. He kicks the dog hard. Now it runs. And runs. I feel regret that I cannot merely reveal myself to show that the dog was right. But I would only invite more holes in my hide. Better a dog kicked than me. I've always felt that way even as the distinction is oft times razor thin. Off the group goes. The shooting will be better in the next field. 'Si'.

I let hours pass before I venture out. I will recover the injured bird neither the hunters nor their dogs could. The painkillers are wearing off. I must clutch my gut as I walk. At the roots I find the bird, panting and broken. Its wings hang as limp as empty sails. I have a pocket knife.... I shall keep the rest to myself.