He sat in the cabin in the woods where he had fled to, because his mind was uneasy in the city. He enjoyed staring at the stars at night and the pang of hunger, which was new to him. He had dreams of Jenna swimming in the air. Executing a luscious breaststroke towards him, while he tried to hunt for his own game out there in the wilderness beyond the porch light at night. When he would wake the next morning, drinking tea (the only thing that was essentially plentiful) he would try to discern some form of meaning to his dreams. He then pieced together from the ornaments in his cabin a mental roadmap. That brought about his dreams. There was a lady doing breaststroke in an red, one-piece swimming costume in a lake, in a painting on the wall, on the back of his bathroom door. He would stare at her while relieving himself and wondered what it was like to float on the Dead Sea. The hunting game-part took him by surprise though. He was the hunted, not the hunter. He was the escapee not the persecutor. He was the rabbit who bolted at the sound of creeping footsteps and Jenna’s were only the softest of treads.