The next day, Adam journeyed out to the edge of the forest, carrying a bucket of water.

Lavender flowers had bloomed over the body, covering it with a blanket of delicate petals. Nearby saplings had taken root as well, growing much taller than they were the day before.

He continued to poke around the plant bed, and all seemed normal and all seemed well. Then, he noticed a few stray fingers poking up from the soil.

He went over and inspected them. They had become shriveled and bony, as if all the blood had run out of them. It seemed strange, but then again he thought, it could just be gravity. When the heart wasn’t pumping blood around the body anymore, it sometimes pooled in odd places. 

He shoved the hand down into the ground, and out of sight, trying not to disturb the flowers. He suddenly felt a little sick, and felt himself retreating from the body. He leaned his back against a large tree trunk, then stood quietly, observing sunlight dancing over the lavender flowers, filtered by the canopy above. His heart was pounding.

He focused on the flowers and on his breathing, slowly forcing his heartbeat to drop.  It was the technique he was taught to use when shooting guns-- counting each heart beat and pulling the trigger between them.

He kicked over the water bucket, and watched the liquid run between the roots and soil, disappearing into the earth and leaving behind rich, dark, marks. When the last drop was out, he picked up the bucket again, looking briefly out into the desert. There was still nothing but the unbroken horizon. He turned away, giving a little nod of acknowledgement to the mysterious “elsewhere” that lay beyond, and to all the things he would never know about the world.

---

At the well, Adam filled the big red bucket up with water, and doused himself with it. The water felt good and cool running down his skin. He massaged the water into his ribs and arms and legs, then he used a clean rag to scrub his skin until everything felt fresh. 

After years of solitude, he realized that he didn’t have to wear clothing as long as other people weren’t around. In fact, sometimes he went totally nude when heat was unbearable. But it still felt strange to be so exposed in the open air. He doused himself once more at the well and then headed toward the armory.

The armory was filled with traveler's things.

There were neatly stacked piles of their pants, their shirts, their jackets, boots and shoes. Everything was washed and placed in perfect rows, organized by size and color and date they were left behind. Trinkets and little machines were placed on rows of shelves, and a collage of photographs was pinned with sap to the corrugated metal wall. There was a small metal table there too, where Adam kept the photographs that had no place or needed to be sorted.

Photographs of women were in one cluster, men in another, and then divided between clothed and unclothed. Color and black and white. 

He picked up the new photograph of the naked woman he'd found in the dead man's pocket, and held it up to the collage. He could place it here, or perhaps it looked better there... he would probably have to shift the other photos in order to make room to place the new one, but that was okay. He had all the time in the world.

He set the photo down.

He selected a white T shirt and a pair of brown shorts that were too wide at the waist. But he was used to that problem-- everything was too big for him. The soldiers who journeyed through the desert were about three times his size. They usually came with big muscles and broad shoulders, gained from fighting many battles in lands unknown. It was amazing how something as small as a bullet could take down this big, strong men, and how quickly a sickness could render them powerless.

---

The first outsider he ever met was an old man who taught him how to shoot, and one of the only fellows to leave the forest alive.

And it hadn’t been his idea to burn the barracks, but the old man had helped Adam to dismantle them and sort through the things that he should keep and the things that should be left in the past.

The old man arrived several months after Adam had buried the bodies, so by then the forest was a only a small field of saplings, rising up from the wide and empty desert. Adam had slept in their shade, but even then he had sun burn from the blazing desert sun. He just couldn’t bear to enter the barracks or the armory again. There were too many memories there.

But when the old man arrived, he did a lot of the heavy lifting. He took pity on the poor little boy, and set to work rebuilding his world. He stayed for two weeks or so, designing and building Adam’s cabin at the top of the rocky cliffs, and created a secret entranceway on the top of the armory where he could climb to enter it discreetly.

The man was familiar with every gun, and took each of them out to show Adam their anatomy and how to use them safely. He was a patient teacher, and only let the boy try to shoot when he was sure he understood the basics-- and respected the weapons.

They set up targets of bloody wood. The old man directed him to imagine that he was shooting the ones who'd killed his family, and so he did. Even though he never saw the faces of his enemy, seeing the blood still inspired vengeance, and the old man advised him to hold onto that feeling and to never let it go. It was better to feel angry than to feel pitiful.

Before the old man left, he asked Adam if he’d like to go with him to the outside world. But Adam said no. He had already lost everything. The last thing he had to hold onto in the world was his home.

He often recalled that choice.

The old man left, and by the time another visitor arrived, he'd forgotten what a human voice sounded like.