“Hey Matador,” Lapsang mutters to me from the darkness, “is your sleeping bag all wet?”
“Yup, pretty damn soaked,” I mumble back from my state of restless slumber. “This tent is shit.” During the torrential downpour that assaulted us half the night, water had leaked in from below us and trickled down the sides of our temporary home. I cocoon further into my water-saturated down quilt, willing it to dry itself on command. Ironically we rented this replacement tent several days ago, ...
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