Lamb leaves for the bathroom. Inside, he locks the door. Looks at himself in the mirror and runs the faucet. Small spuds of whisker budding on his chin. Root slowly developing deep in the pores of his skin. He splashes water on these tiny saplings. When he dries his face, he sees himself. Nothing has changed. He closes his eyes. Holds his hands to his face. Leaves them there. Pictures a thick beard. A red bed of fuzz. He visualizes his hair growing long over his shoulders. His hands are worn with axe-forged sores, arms strong, legs sturdy, handshake firm.

For one second, everything seems real.

He leaves the bathroom. The air inside the house is still full with the smell of supper. The television murmurs. In the kitchen, now, and the air inside it has cooled. His face is damp. His bangs drip water onto the bridge of his nose. He opens cabinets. There are bowls. Plates. Pots. Pans. He wonders what to do for several moments. He opens the refrigerator. Mustard. Orange juice. Mayonnaise. He finds a beer. Opens it. Drinks. The can feels cold, good against his skin. It’s dark outside. Lamb can see himself in the black glass of the window. He walks over to the window. Examines the pane. There are several dead insects trapped between the glass and the screen. He examines their small curled bodies. Antennae corroded by sun and dust.

He stands in the kitchen drinking. Seeming himself. Wishing he was somewhere. He peers through his reflection into the backyard. He lived here once. He played here as a child. He closes his eyes. 60 Minutes has made us all think in terms like these, he thinks.

In the woods, he sees himself standing among tree trunk and thicket.