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no wind, no rain

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Day one: Ow.

Day three: It’s dark and humid like an armpit. It smells like piss because of the bucket in the corner. Peter’s split knuckles are probably infected.

Day seven: A bionic hand would be cool. Peter would rather never feel his organic one again. He wishes he’d learned more songs from the Zune; he’s hummed through Hollaback Girl two hundred thirty-eight times so far.

Day ten: If only Gamora were here. Or Drax. Anyone.

Day ??: A lot of yelling. Everything’s fuzzy. Peter dreams he sees Rocket. You found me, Peter says.

Of course we did, dumbass, Rocket says.