"When we reach the station, that will be it", we cry. How restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes loitering, waiting, waiting, waiting for the station. Once we reach there, so many wonderful dreams will come true and the pieces of our lives will be fit together like a completed jigsaw puzzle.
On a certain day at a certain hour, we will pull into the station. But the uppermost in our minds is the final destination. Out the windows, we drink in the passing scene of cars on nearby highways, of children waving on a crossing, of cattle grazing on a distant hillside, of smoke pouring from a power plant, of row upon row of corn and wheat, of flatlands and valleys, of mountains and rolling hillsides, of city skylines and village halls. We see ourselves on a long trip that spans the continent. But his mind was for the moment clear, and he lay and considered.Tucked away in our subconsciousness is an idyllic vision.
He was awaken once from a faint by a wheeze close in his ear.The wolf leaped lamely back, losing its footing and falling in its weakness. His mind had begun to wander again, and to be perplexed by hallucinations, while his lucid intervals grew rarer and shorter. Then began as grim a tragedy of existence as was ever played－a sick man that crawled, a sick wolf that limped, two creatures dragging their dying carcasses across the desolation and hunting each other’s livesHad it been a well wolf, it would not have mattered so much to the man but the thought of going to feed the maw of that loathsome and all but dead thing was repugnant to him. Once, glancing back, he saw the wolf licking hungrily his bleeding trail, and he saw sharply what his own end might be－unless－unless he could get the wolf.
His knees had become raw meat like his feet, and though he paddled them with the shirt from his back it was a red track he left behind him on the moss and stones. Indian summer held on, and he continued to crawl and faint ,turn and turn about and ever the sick wolf coughed and wheezed at his heels.
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