Twisted Slough Livin' at my mommas house, we'd argue every month.

There wasn't much here except for muck, which in retrospect was perfect for the slumlord wannabe. He didn't know what to do with himself aside from keep moving so that's what Screech did; he hadn't eaten or slept in a few days now, but if he was going to find any solace at all, he had to keep on moving. His mind was a blur of manic depression — having never been very emotional or introspective before, this new version of himself was difficult to adjust to. Just as Screech thought he'd gotten a handle on his abysmal thoughts, something new would creep in among the garbage, and he'd be off on a new mental spin. At some point his brain would stop chattering away at him. He'd stop filling the blankness of his travel and the void of his lonliness with mental discussion, but so far it hadn't really clicked yet.

As he sloshed his way through the muddy fringes of the slough (and then the murky brown water at the bottom that was just enough to force him to swim ever few steps) a fresh chill descended upon him — and so too did a shadow, soaring across him from overhead until he heard a shuddering noise in the trees, and a hawk's screech. The boy lifted himself on to the opposite bank. With some scrambling, he got a firm grip on terra firma and was free in time to catch a glimpse of the tree-tops swaying beneath an abrupt gale. Screech shook off and watched the sky, curious to note the silence in the air after that call — before there had been starlings, chickadees, towhees, blackbirds — but now there was only silence as the hawk fed.