@tru-neutral-good
It was strange to wake up. There was no gap in his memory, no moments of wondering what had happened to him. He'd died. He knew that. The memory of the knife slamming into his back was fresh and vivid enough that he was scrambling at the front of his shirt, looking for a wound, for blood, for some sort of evidence. There was nothing, not even a tear, and he quickly shrugged out of his jacket to check that as well. Not a mark on it, as though it had never happened at all. Jesus trusted himself though, the only thing he could trust for most of his life, and he knew he wasn't mistaken.
It was neither cool nor hot where he was, and he cautiously slid the coat back on, the brown leather duster he'd favored even in the punishing Virginia heat. His surroundings weren't familiar to him, and he turned his attention to a careful examination of them. A hazy fog concealed much of it, but it looked like farm area. A cozy house, a garden, a field. He had no idea how he'd gotten there. His fingers brushed over the hilt of the knife at his side, reassuring himself that it was still there. The temptation to call out for someone was strong, but if there were walkers around, he didn't want to bring them down on him.
