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25 sustenance I tracked it through the one mind of the woods. Its hoofprints pressed in snow were smallish hearts. Buck-fawn: he let me come so near, take aim. Crouched against a fir, I was anything. Bush, stump, doe in estrus he could rut. Not his maimer, though, not his final thought. He stared me down until I shot him: low. Then the forest forgot he’d ever been. Nascent, there were signs: bonechip, spoor, frail hair. But no memory, wounded, wants to die. He hid in the dark timber, twice crossed the creek. Finally he lay heaving out last breaths. Dusk-cast shadow, he died where he was made. A bite of heart sustains but is not him. ...

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