It’s never been easy, going into Marty’s room – as if there’s a big unwritten keep-out sign on the door. Then again, you could say the same about Marty himself.The door knob’s cold. Like a dead pig’s trotter. Stiff too, like it don’t want me to come in. But I have to. For Marty.
I know he’s there, I can feel him. All through the mags and knives, piggin’ collars and can’t-see-me gear. He’s on the floor, laid out with the deer hide he tanned himself. Up on the wall with the antlers and tusks, and the boar’s head. Marty’s right through the room, bits and pieces of him there for the taking.
That’s the problem. What do I take?