[for Wolverine]

So there's this fridge in this cave, and if you think real hard at it, it gives you what you want to eat. It didn't exist when I first got here -- or if it did, nobody knew about it -- but of all the changes that've happened in the past four years, it's easily my favorite. I mean, c'mon, it's an adventure and a free meal all in one -- what's not to like? It's pretty much the only good difference I can think of, the rest not worth dwelling on.

Of the group of us who arrived, it's only me and Wolverine who're left, the others having disappeared long ago. Mary Jane's hurt the most, and she'll have already been gone two years come the end of the month. It's strange, how time passes here, quickly and slowly all at once. Celebrating today seems morbid in a way I can't put a finger on, but for all I've been craving my own company lately, I know I don't want to be alone. It's just too damn depressing.

In the same breath, I know if I show up at Wolverine's cabin in the middle o' nowhere empty-handed, it'll be a short-lived visit at best, and that's just too far of a trek to get kicked out the second I get there. So I go to that fridge I was talking about, and I think real hard of Canada and lumberjacks and maple syrup, and after a few tries, it spits out a platter of poutine, a six-pack of Molson, and a box of something that looks like donut holes.

I insulate my bag with webbing to keep the hot stuff hot, the cold stuff cold, and the dry stuff dry, and make the by-no-means familiar walk to the murder cabin. The webbing's more or less dissolved by the time I get there, and sucking in a breath, I knock on the door.

Man, I hope he's home. I should've really called ahead.

"I got a special delivery for a Mr. Wolv E. Rine?"