Thousand: Three Hundred Ninety

nose seem to darken as a ray of sunlight streaks down from a break in the clouds. But the ray fades and the flames glow and writhe. Where’s the dog? Bernie stumbles and the bushes grab at him, poking him in the face, a thorn reopens the wound on his forehead. He pushes forward and branches give way, raking more scratches on his arms, and tearing his clothes. “Oof,” says the dog softly. Right at Bernie’s feet there’s a hole. No, a gully. Grabbing the stout stem of the bush that just scraped him, Bernie lowers himself. The idle of