The next morning I began my slow journey, moving through the tall, wet grass, my limbs stiff from the cold.
Now and then, I’d drink from a mud puddle or gnaw on some grass. By evening I was wobbly with hunger and thirst.
I followed the highway. Every time a four-wheeled creature roared by, I froze in fear. And yet—and this is what slays me—I knew that cars meant humans, and humans meant the possibility of living, just as much as they meant the possibility of dying.