It’s a bright day, a good day as any to die I suppose. The sun would hurt my eyes if they weren’t shut, the man pushing me from behind grumbles about the light. I just hope he doesn’t trip on me. His hands are large and heavy, almost oppressively warm on my shoulders. He moves me like a pushcart, steadily applying pressure on a diagonal vector, just enough down force to keep from shoving me forward. “Pick up your knees,” he calls out in a strangely friendly monotone, and my foot stomps down on something that gives. I realize we’ve moved off the path and he’s marching me into a swamp. I can hear the earth squishing beneath my feet and the sibilant consonants of the water running through the grass. We pass through areas of shade and light,atwo pairs of shoessoggily stamping down the low grass and whatever drowning creatures of the earth that in my sightlessness I do not perceive. Vain worries of soiling the white hems of my slacks are my last concern as I am suddenly halted. I notice the absence of wind and the sound of birds as he declares ominously “I execute you here.”

I thought we were friends.