Thousand: Three Hundred Ninety-Six

on in, Bernie takes a shaky breath. The air feels unfamiliar in his lungs. Smells like a locker room. Sweat, rank and fresh. Just as he steps out of the day he glances back and sees a great muscular question mark raised against the sky, clenched in its curve the shabby crunkle of the roof of the truck’s cobalt blue cab. So many questions, he thinks as he notices again the soreness in his ankle and drags one hand along the wall, extending the other in front. He bumps against the dog who grunts and whaps him with his tail.