The summer heat was pressing on his chest, making it difficult to catch his breath. It was the weight of a lifetime that never seemed to go where he wanted or expected it to.
But he was free now, and that was all that mattered. The smell of cooking meat was coming from a cabin striding a mountain creek at the bottom of the Appalachian valley. How had he come from southern swamps to clear mountain creeks so fast? He thought about his mother, who had died when he was only four years old. His entire life seemed to stretch out before him like a strange play on a foreign stage. What could he do?
It was a divine comedy. Dante's inferno. So what? The real world was more interesting than any fiction that his mind could come up with. The smoky haze of bacon was wafting up the ridge like a kiss from an old friend. He imagined his granny cooking pancakes, topped with butter and maple syrup. It seemed that he had spent more time and energy on preserving his childhood memories, than growing up and conforming to normal social expectations. The rocks made natural handholds, as he worked his way down into the valley, and a confrontation with the cabin owner.