Traveler’s Rest

He lay on the cot of the Ames Shelter House and closed his eyes.

That summer’s ramble had been the last. He’d known it then and the doc had confirmed it, told him he was lucky to have lasted as long as he had.

That afternoon he’d given his bindle to a young man who’d come in asking for a blanket, given him all he’d need for surviving the streets, tools that it had taken years to acquire.

The empty locker felt like a wound, but he could lie here warm with eyes closed and travel it all over again.

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