Years later, when they were old men who could only grasp at fleeting memories of their adventures, they’d sit together on porches, benches, in pubs, restaurants, pulling at the hair growing from their ears or scratching their beards and wonder how either of them ended up alive.
Or however close this was to it.
When the storm smashed their rowboat against the rocks. When a spurned former lover fired his rifle into the crowd at their cousin’s wedding. The innumerable hospital beds. Miles and miles of bloody bandages. The near-constant convalescence.
One would cough and the other could only nod.
Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post: Unpredictable