Mr. Stevenson believes in the stars and (stripes) wrote in repose,
Re: log: grant/matt, the woods
Grant maintained position; he thought about it like that, not stayed, but maintained position, a military term, all in the spine and the distributed tension of his body. He didn't know there was anything mechanical about the man not far away, lacked an understanding of how his mind worked, or what really controlled the joints moving in the unremarkable gloves and sleeves, but Grant knew clearly his friend's voice, his friend's speech, the expressions that used to light up his face. He saw none of that in the cold, empty clearing, not from the man staring at him.
"You came here after Alaska. Why? Were you looking for me?" Grant was assuming a lot, drawing from the only explanation, the only story he could think of: his own. "When did you wake up?"
Real worry and a new touch of tension came over grant as the words really sank in, or rather, one in particular. They. "They," Grant repeated. Now his tone was starting to veer toward command, an authority that he had acquired in the latter part of his life. "They. I don't know... them. No one sent me. Who do you think would, Owen?" He was unable to stop himself from moving his gaze around the circumference of the clearing, watching for signs that they weren't alone.