'Fucking toaster! Can't even do it's job.'
Hank sighed as he threw the burnt slices of bread into the trash can. He had had a rough night. First it had been the excessively thin mattress, which had done nothing but effectively reduce his expected slumber to short uncomfortable naps. Secondly, the noises of the Wall Forest were enough to make him believe in the supernatural. As a forest ranger in the expansive forest, he had actually started to get used to the sounds, that is, until he heard the gunshot.
Although it sounded not far away, Hank felt as if the shot was done just outside his cabin. He had curled up in his bed, half-afraid that the gunshot was from his vicinity of watch. Yet again, the gunshot had brought back memories of his time as a soldier in Afghanistan. Yes, he was an ex-marine, who was determined to forget every piece of his past in the army.
Now that his breakfast had been ruined, Hank had to think of another way to get food. There was no way he could go back to the canteen at the main station—the road to it had been destroyed by a heavy rain just some days ago. In addition to the impenetrable mud, some huge trees had fallen on the main road. Hank had thus been trapped, although he had done enough shopping to last him two months. The ranger-in-charge had told him that it would take them weeks to clear the road for movement, possibly months. Hank nonchalantly reacted. After all, he was used to being alone.
Glaring at his remaining supplies, an brilliant idea formed inside Hank's head. Lake Boswell wasn't far from his cabin, and it boasted of fleshy fish who would assist in eliminating his hunger. Sure, he had been cautioned against disturbing the forest's ecosystem, but who would know? After all, he was trapped alone in this section of the forest, with no one to keep an eye on him.
Hank thus put on his hiking boots and stepped out of his cabin, breathing in the fresh air that roamed about that part of the forest. He grabbed his fishing rod and set out for the lake, whistling chirpily. The little fishing expedition would also serve as a chance for him to investigate the gunshot he had heard the previous night. God forbid that he met a dead body or the shooter. His life was just as peaceful as he wished, he didn't want anything to interrupt it.
Hank finally reached arrived at the beach of the lake. Still whistling, his eyes scanned around for any presence of algae to use on his hook. They fell upon a patch of fresh algae some metres away. Optimistic, he moved towards the patch, eager to get his fish and go back to his cocoon of a cabin. He wasn't fond of the sunlight, it made him feel vulnerable, weak. His right hand involuntarily moved to his left collar bone, the victim of a battle injury.
He had just reached the plant and was bending over to pick it when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something. It was a shoe—one half of a pair of sneakers. He immediately became alert as his eyes jumped from one end of the lake to the other.
'Those shoes weren't there yesterday,' he thought.
Turning his rod into a makeshift sword, he stealthily ambled to the spot where the shoe was. It was then that Hank saw the body. A teenage boy lay on the ground just next to the lake. His body was wet and still, unconscious, at least that was what Hank hoped. He dropped his rod and rushed over to where the boy lay to examine him. He looked young, at least fifteen. His black skin was vibrant in the sunlight, seeming to hold some hope for his life. Hank then noticed the gunshot wound on the boy's abdomen. It wasn't a serious wound. Henry figured out that the bullet had no exit point and thus was still inside his body, millimetres from his stomach. A wave of concern suddenly rushed over him and he knelt down to feel the boy's pulse.
'Good. You're still breathing.'