Thousand: Four Hundred Thirteen

better be, cuz I have fuck all my wallet, at least I have my wallet, unless it fell out in that scramble through the bushes and, I wonder if hell takes American Express, oh these rungs are whew are cold. Up we go. Hell’s supposed to be hot. Damn, it’s. Cold. Shit. This wind is blowing right down my shirt. Blowing. Down.” Bernie pauses and sniffs the air. Smells like the great outside world. So he climbs faster. A faint glow shows him his hands. Then, staggered, he almost loses his grip. Gasping, he rests his chin on the rung