Chipped and eaten

Tatuke, assum, debucher,

All the dirt looked the same, but it all led somewhere different,
big bear, following his soul, with the red and black blocks of a Kodiak,
imprinted into dark ridges. He grunted, and they followed, under the trees,
trickling into bark and sawdust, as he cried out with a salmon held high to some god
of the month. Yellow hats, shiny with sweat and overused material, more markings,
something like a mountain lion but with less soul. You'll forget about it.

It was in these woods you tripped up and realised the issue at hand. To be caught,
if under the thumb, you need to chew through. Escape something forbidden with something far more criminal, save yourself. Take the widows son, I've heard he doesn't talk anymore, so no squealing. He knows what to do. He's not really there anymore; three parts gone, he can fit through small holes. In fact he can filter himself through the eyes of anything, nobody knows he's there.

The yellow hats are done. The receptionist will take your call; she is your god now, she'll tell you where to go.