A dull pencil is greater than the sharpest memory. - an English proverb
It was the ninth day when he finally caught up to the boy. The sand-eroded tires of his sedan rolled effortlessly down that last hill, swallowing grass beneath its great metal frame and closing the distance between him and the boy with deadly speed. There was never a chance of escape; none had ever made it more than a week before the head lamps of that Chevrolet bathed them in a ghastly glow of artificial light. But this boy was different. The man could feel it the moment he picked up the trail; for one, the boy barely left a trace of himself at all, his tracks often stopping at riverbanks and not starting again until much further downstream. Of course, it was only a matter of time before the man found him, but on a hunt like this, time seemed to lose all relevance. Perhaps he had been driving through the great emptiness for nine days or maybe it had been six hours, or three weeks. The man turned inwards during these journeys, letting his body grip the steering wheel while his mind traveled backwards. Dim silhouettes of dead memories often danced before his eyes as he cut through the quiet, undisturbed American landscape that flooded past his windshield.