34) The bird has yielded a pitiful few mouthfuls of meat. The carcass is in blood-spotted disarray, with parts scattered as though by a witch doctor casting a very evil spell. I meant the bird no ill will. I am merely hungry. Weakness feeds on weakness.

I must start a fire. I have my matches and a world of tinder. I hope a day will come when I do more than nurse an injury in the morning, walk briefly to my next mistake in the afternoon; Thence to run and cower the evening away, and finish with a night of fitful sleep in a damn narrow I hope no other animal wants. I will do more with my days, starting tomorrow. But for now I must keep my fire going and... burn my meat. Quite burned. It is not hard to start a fire or keep it going. It is the putting out where real skill is needed. From confinement in a circle of stones, my fire leapt to tall brush. It was swept along by wind enough. Alarm birds, that is what I shall call them, inclusive of the one I burnt, dart from hundreds of concealments on my bit of playa. (Stupid dogs found only two.) Fire has no brain, but it makes a great one of the many who carry the stories and fear of it within them. It is in me. I am afraid of fire the way other people are afraid of god. Above all else. So please excuse my limited tries at stopping it. What little stomping around I did, yes, I'll admit, was for show, so that the good Doctor will not think less of me than he may already. I must be into negative numbers. The fire leaps into the trees and, too, begins grazing the hillside. Who can guess where it might stop. Purely rhetorical mutterance.
It is evening nearly, so begins the running portion of my day.