By day, he waited patiently for them to find him and kill him. He was sure it was only a matter of time until they found him, although he had only the vaguest sense of who they were: a dark figure in a light coat, or perhaps a light figure in a dark coat, or perhaps somehow both at once. His memory seemed mostly to have deserted him, if he ever had one at all. He remembered a trip through the woods, his missing hand aching, his stump wrapped in an old shirt, a gash open on his forehead. Before that, he wasn't certain what he remembered. The dream of the woman with a baby leg might be a memory but maybe it was just a dream. The cabin was perhaps his cabin or perhaps just a cabin he had stumpled upon or perhaps part of a third undefined category, he couldn't say.

--Baby Leg by Brian Evenson (Tyrant Books)