Far From Home

Rations had run low days ago. The tundra was as unforgiving as it was lonely, but he had finally crossed the large lake and was looking at the start of some evergreens. The sight of organic life gave him hope and the strength to get off the frozen lake and climb up to the bank. 
He looked around like he had seen in the movies.

“That way is west.” he asserted with no real knowledge. Before his next journey, he scooped up some pebbles, picked some berries after tasting them. Fearless. With a deep breath he pushed deeper into the woods. 
Suddenly, the lack of sound from the lake was sorely missed. Each screech was a cause for alarm. The hose mistaken for a snake. Each stroke across his leg by the ferns left all his hairs on end. 
A dash flashed out of the corner of his eyes. He followed it to a pig. Finally, a meal. His wrists imitated the move his head had practiced hundreds of times. Application was different than theory. The pebble he shot landed wide and scared dinner off. At least he had berries.
His antics had cost time. The forest was looking more menacing by the minute. Shelter jumped to the top of the list. Branches were chosen at random as he kicked them until they broke off of the trees. Assembling the hut he envisioned was pretty hard. Once he figured out how to make mud in the ice cold conditions it got a little easier. It would do, for tonight.

“Billy! Where are you?”

“In the garden, exploring!”

“Get out of there! Dinner is ready and it is dark. Go wash up first too!”

He ran out of the garden and around his pool. Tonight was his favorite meal, pork chops.

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