The first thing you do is remove the saddle, so the first thing you learn is that saddles are surprisingly heavy. There's also the problem of the gore: the saddle peels away with a Velcro noise, leaving ropey strands of half-frozen blood like pink mozzarella.
You should take a picture. That's me again, offering advice. Spider told me all about smartphones. I'm pretty high-tech for a cat.
"I don't have a—"
The cat is gone. There's a little sizzle in your brain as your thoughts settle back into their accustomed shape. But don't worry; I'll be keeping my eye on you, cub.
The saddle has a little oval that says J.L. HEANEY, MAKER. You think there's a town and state below, but it's been abraded away. You don't have a phone, so you pull out a notebook and do your best to sketch the maker's mark, and then you draw the saddle itself from several angles. Maybe the saddle's shape is important, so you try to capture that.
Your hands are freezing by the time you're done, so you stomp over to the dead horseman. The tablet is completely destroyed, every port filled with frozen blood, but you find a wallet in his camo jacket. No ID, but your numb hands fumble over $140 in bills—you stuff them into your empty zipper-wallet.
You and Scarper don't always see eye to eye, but he taught you how to survive. This is how. But now you need to start asking questions.
No, wait: now you need to get out of the cold before you die.
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