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I suppose that it was a nice enough day, but that no longer made any difference to me. I walked along apathetically, falling on all fours whenever I came to an incline. My elbows and knees were raw and bloody, but the thick layer of mud that clung to my body covered my wounds. I dragged myself forward, clutching at roots and bushes, and for a moment lay perfectly still, sprawled on the earth. I could hear the river, but I couldn't see it.

I have to go on. I can't give up.

I saw a cluster of nettles nearby and dragged myself over to them, touching them with both hands. Their sharp sting helped me forget the agony of my feet. I came upon a tree whose lower boughs were swarming with the familiar little ants, fire ants. I must have been nearly delirious. I shook the branches and let the ants shower down on my head, crawl along the nape of my neck, my back, and into my pants. I walked on with the bite of ants burning into my body and derived a strange pleasure from the pain. Anything was better than thinking about my feet.

I was weak and famished. From time to time I would fall forward to lap up a little water from a brook that crossed my path. Toward noon I lost all awareness of where I was setting my feet and fell into another bog. I sank swiftly up to my knees and then up to my waist. Again I tried forcing my legs out, and almost got one foot out of my shoe, but not out of the mud.

I no longer thought of my family but simply