A squirrel, not long dead, in the middle of the lane. 16 miles of unfamiliar back roads to go. Not far along, another dead squirrel. Counting now as the mountain switchbacks take me up through the blanket of morning mist. Six. Seven. Eight. Then a mangled possum.
Finally, a sofa, drenched by last night’s rain, that a hastily spraypainted sign declares “FREE.”
It is October.