He caught a blurred glimpse of a slender, weaselly body that seemed powered by a muscular tail rather than legs, and then its teeth sank into his ankle. Frostbite, just a small patch. 'The road to Gosselin's — the blacktop — can't be more than three miles from here. 'Got some work to do now.
It was (the simile came from Jonesy's store) like having a tiny fishbone stuck in your throat. Well, he thought, it isn't as if I took a vow, or anything. The only thing he'd ever smelled even remotely like it was the breath of a patient he'd had once, a schizophrenic with intestinal cancer. That had been real enough, but not the stuporous heat.
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