He forced himself up and trudged down the east bank of the river. Three torturous days later John lay on a sandbank by the river. He could not find the energy to move anymore. Over the past few days, several tributaries had joined this river and it was significant. The land had flattened out and the river serpentined more, lengthening his journey. Meadows replaced the thicker forest from further upstream. The sun shone down and his forehead was beet-red and peeling and his lips were cracked. Blueberries were replaced by some yellowish-green ones on small bushes. He wasn’t sure if they were okay to eat so he had gone without food for a day now. There were fish in the river but he was too slow and weak to try to catch them. With the last of his energy, he gathered up some grass, twigs, and sticks and started a fire on the sandbank. Once he had a good blaze going he dragged some waterlogged wood from the river and tossed it on the flames, then fell beside the fire. He barely noticed the billowing smoke as he fell asleep. He dreamt of the plane crash, the final sputters of the engine, the snapping branches, and the loud smash of metal against trees. It rolled through his head over and over. Always back to the engine. The woop-woop-woop of the engine.