I've been going through my things, trying to decide what I want the Boy to have. It won't be long now: the cold has got into my bones, I'm too weak to drag the heavy logs in, or chop them up into smaller ones. The picture frames & sticks of furniture are long gone. One or two shelf-planks are left, but I won't burn the books. There: I'll leave him the books. He'll know what to do with them.
He's started to hunt — well, trap, mostly: field mice, little birds; yesterday we had two squirrels for dinner. Right now, he's out practicing with the sling I made for him out of some long-dead guest's soft leather purse. Learning to hit the broad side of a barn, as my Pop-pop used to say — the way we all start.
It's hard for him, of course, watching me fail like this. I think he understands what's happening, and he's worried: he has that expression kids get when something's going really wrong, that look that wrings your heart. When you had one.
But he's also curious. He touches me now — puts his hand on my hand, my chest, my face. Not to comfort me, I can tell, but maybe to see if it can account for what's happening to me, or just confirm what he suspects.
Not much else to leave him: my clothes, my tools & weapons, this notebook — and, if he has any sense, my carcass...