As he walked, straining against the weight of his backpack, feet stabbing dirt, Hawley tried to tear up the past. Every time an image of what had been rose up, he peeled it back and looked at the steep grind of the trail. It didn’t matter, that was history. It didn’t matter what he could have had, that was before. He needed to tear and burn it, this was now. He needed to toss it all in a fire, and watch it burn. But when they finally stomped marching, when the food was served and he sat down by the fire, next to Hernandez and the English reporter, all were too tired to talk, and quietly, as they staring the fire. Hawley pulled the leather book from his pack and found the photograph between the pages. In the flickering firelight, he stared at the photograph, telling his hand to toss it in the fire, but his fingers wouldn’t let it go.
The English reporter saw him hesitating. “A pretty friend?”
“Doesn’t even know I’m alive.”
“But you are alive, aren’t you?”
“Suppose so.”
“Then anything is possible, isn’t it?”
Hawley nodded, and tucked the photograph back in the book, and tucked the photograph back in the book and closed it. The reporter was smiling as if he’d lit a small candle of hope in Hawley’s mind, and knew better than risk extinguishing it with a bit of unnecessary wind.