The world before Nate Carson's eyes was as gloomy as the one behind them. The morning mist hung on the air like a stale, gray shroud. Nate shivered beneath his single wool blanket and stared out from his lean-to. He could just make out the row of oaks, phantom sentries, that shielded his makeshift camp from the road. There was something else in the mist; something just beyond recognition, but coming closer. Hoof beats, muffled by the fog, but definately hoof beats approaching and at least a dozen strong.
      Yankee cavalry
      The Yankees passed without slowing and Nate sat up to stir the ashes of last night’s campfire. He found a dim orange glow buried beneath the remnant of a oak stump and blew the embers back to life. He still had a small supply of kindling and a bit of scavenged fence post. These produced a modest fire that drove back the cold which Nate’s threadbare clothes could not keep out.
      He took a quick sip of water from his canteen and splashed a handful on his face. The bite of sudden cold let him know he was still alive, but did little to drive away the weariness. Nate rummaged in his knapsack for a few coffee beans and a biscuit. He popped the beans into his mouth and chewed them. He preferred to boil coffee, but there wasn’t enough for that. God only knew how long what little he had would have to last. He washed the beans down with sips from his canteen and bits of molar busting Yankee hardtack.
      The sun was up at last. It was still only a pale circle lurking behind the soft, dreamlike mist and half hidden by the trees, but it was up and too soon it burned off the last of the night and let in the harsh reality of another day. Another day in which Nate Carson would tramp south along the road...
      Home.
      A silent chuckle worked its way up from Nate’s belly and bobbed his shoulders.
      “Home? Now that’s funny,” Nate thought.
      Home was a small pile of ashes hidden in the big pile of ashes that was once Atlanta. His mother and father were dead. The bank that held his modest savings was gone. Just as well; the money was worthless anyway. Worthless, broke and alone; that was Nate Carson this fine morning.

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