When he woke, Michael clambered from the wreckage, then floundered in the drifts — punching through with every step — 

… ‘til he reached the barren lane.  Under the yellow of the stars, his breath plumed like an egret, and his boots crunched and squeaked. 

Blood spilled from his crown, hit the wintry air, and stiffened like black jelly.

And Michael staggered on…

He thought of his naughty Beagle pissing on the couch, and smirked.   

“Almost home, boy.”   

But the road stretched for miles; and the gash seeped like yolk.

And Michael staggered on…

… slumped to the ground, leaned against a fir.  Beheld his lover, dancing in his awkward arms —   

With shallow breath, Michael tried to sing, “… we’ll take a right… good willie waught…” but faded.  Snippets of his baby sister — tattling — prattling — battling — flickered in his brain like a pinwheel — 

“for the days… of auld… lang…”  

A coyote’s yip snapped him to —

And Michael staggered on…

… but dizzied, fell again… then crawled, shuddering and aimless.  

The bitter wind whipped just so, and a single light peeked between the naked trees — “Pa’s ol’ Chevy.  With one taillight” — he retched hard onto his chest — “so dim from my window… how could ya’ Dad?”  

Michael lurched… then lay face down —

“Momma — can I show you somethin’?”  

She swathed the frosting into a cool, chocolate wave. “Not now.  Think your brother’ll like it?”  

“It’s a nice cake, Ma.” Michael winced and crumpled his drawing in his fist.  

His wound reopened; the blood was rich atop the snow, like cotton and wine.

A mile into the thicket, hunters found Michael in the April thaw, perished at the foot of an unmarked grave.