The boy walks the wooded trail. Every third or fourth tree is topped by a crow who appears to be watching. The woods are silent except for the far off sound of the ocean – a white noise for a gray morning. The company of crows makes him feel less alone. The simple fact of their seeing him is a comfort, a connection to something, however unknown, however unknowable. He doesn't wonder what they think of him. He doesn't have to. He knows that, to them, he simply exists. They know him in a way the he wishes was available to him. Without the fear and shame.
He stops and picks a sassafras leaf and chews on the stem. It doesn't taste sweet like the sarsaparilla soda he drinks but he imagines it does. He wonders if they still use the root to make it or if the drink is synthetic now, like everything else. He relishes the spicy earthiness of the stem. He admires the three-lobed shape of the leaves, the symmetry of them seeming less random than most tree leaves. They feel familiar and friendly.
He steps off the path and into the trees, carefully stepping around briars and broken branches. He continues until he finds a small clearing. He looks back to be sure it’s far enough from the trail to be safe – to be unseen. He undresses, placing his clothes in a neat pile on the ground. He stands there, bare, at the edge of the clearing for a full minute. The cool air on his skin excites him and his heart beat speeds up. A small patch of grass ahead is brightened by the sun as it breaks through the clouds. He steps out from the trees and walks slowly towards the open space and the light.
He looks up at an airplane flying overhead and wonders…