Rounding out from the eighth parameter.
Found, fed, and stuck around. The girl with the argyle socks stuck around longer than she dared to imagine. She would never know why, truly why the man with the rifle set off again without her — he had to keep moving. The detour he had taken on account of her had lasted long enough. Too long if he were to be honest with himself. She’d even caused him a major setback by consuming part of someone he needed alive. The girl with the argyle socks would not be privy to this explanation. Somehow, though, she knew that waiting for him to return would be for naught. So, she gathered herself and headed towards the road.
The man with the rifle couldn’t have been gone for more than thirty minutes because she could still smell him in the air. Unless, of course, the wind was blowing that honeysuckle scent in a steady stream from his direction. Hazel 38. The only name of his the girl with the argyle socks had. No matter. Thanks to him, she wouldn’t have to look for food for at least another two weeks. What she needed was a bath. Her hands were beginning to smell like pancakes; her hair was starting to turn blue. She also had to find the cathedral she had dreamed of twice since being picked up by the man with the rifle. The girl with the argyle socks couldn’t remember her dreams most of the time, therefore, the ones she could see clearly in her memory were treasured as both rarities and prescient inklings.