I have two bottles of liquor in my backpack. One is a very good single malt scotch. The other, a cheap bottle of vodka. They’re not a full fifth. About a pint each. Unopened. Untouched.

With my hiking back strapped to my back, and when the din of the road has quieted, you can hear the liquid slosh against the containers, one glass, one plastic. I have heard them almost every evening for the past three years.

They’re there to remind me of my final decision, the final choice that I am just about to make.

Whether I live or I die.