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Summary
His shirt sticks to his chest and his armpits once he pulls it back on. It’s too heavy, and he nearly stumbles over when trying to get up. More sand has somehow gathered in his shoes, so he kicks them off and swears when it creeps between his toes and underneath his nails and beneath the scrapes on his feet. Sand sticks the ends of his shorts to his knees. The cuts from tripping burn, and he’s read up something about getting sand in cuts in the past but isn’t going to think about it this early. It hurts, but these days, he always hurts.
There is more of him in Logstedshire than there is Logstedshire in him. There’s no spirit left in him to make a flag. He’s left behind more pieces of skin and hair; a chip of one of his canines; small pieces of fabric from his shirt than he can count.
Logstedshire isn’t a happy place, and it isn’t a place for someone like him.
The longer he stays in exile, the longer it chips away at him. There's something wrong with Dream. Tommy keeps seeing his brother at night. Someone is waiting for him out in the woods, winter days keep getting longer, and there's something in the water.