A little something to know about my writing style. Words in "quotes" are spoken and words in 'single quotes' are thoughts. Words in italics....welll, you'll have to figure those out.

Detour, Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still do not own them. But plan to have some fun with them.

Bosco lingered on the verge of consciousness, almost afraid to face the world around him. He felt strange. He hurt, but not like he expected too. 'Maybe I'm dead, or dying.'

He felt a rough wetness prodding his cheek. 'Maybe help has arrived.'

He thought he could make out voices, muffled words or maybe just noises. 'Is that a siren? Paramedics?' He could only hope.

Slowly he struggled to come back to the world around him. Cracking his eyelids open, his vision still slightly blurred, he was looking directly into a long wet snout.

"Ahhhhhhh" he grunted, as he jumped slightly. The movement and noise sending the group of pigs around him into a squealing frenzy. "What the..." Bosco watched the pigs scurry down a hill and out of site. Looking around cautiously, he saw nothing but woods. Sunlight trickled through the tree branches.

Slowly maneuvering from his back to his side, he tried to sit up. "Ahhhhhh" He propped himself up on one arm and held his aching head with the other. "Where is everyone?" He mumbled to himself. Searching the area around him, he expected to see the wreckage, other passengers, maybe even a rescue crew. But he saw none of that. Not a sign of a crash site. In fact nothing appeared to be disturbed.

Slowly standing on unsteady legs, he looked around again. 'Maybe I was thrown from the plane. But how would I have survived that? I'm relatively intact.' He thought, as he took a quick inventory. He was bleeding from a cut above his right eye and his whole body ached. His right arm was bleeding. Both the knees of his pants were torn and his left knee and shin definitely were missing some skin.

For the next twenty minutes, he slowly searched the area around him with disappointing results. Finally exhausted from that little effort, his mouth parched, he sat down on a tree stump to rest. Looking down at his feet, he noticed something shiny, partially covered by leaves. Reaching out, he retrieved the object that he recognized as one of the big lady's knitting needles. Staring at the object in disbelief, he recalled the lady's pleas as the plane descended. Looking up at the sky through the tree limbs, he offered up his own silent prayer.