“I saw a bear.” I felt everything lighten. I knew that if he found the bear he would kill it. But I was willing to sacrifice it for myself, for my happiness. To stay with Jackson for even a little longer. To delay the drive back to town.

“You sure it was a bear?”

I nodded.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“It happened so fast—I was scared.”

He threw a hand in the air and then squeezed his forehead, thinking. Suddenly, he sprang toward the truck and retrieved his gun. Without inviting me along, he took off for the woods. Even if I had wanted to keep up, I knew I wouldn’t be able to. He was lean and fast. The woods swallowed him whole in a matter of seconds.

After the shock of his exit wore off, I occupied myself by building miniature huts out of twigs, like I’d done when I was a kid. They didn’t stand up for long, but it passed the time. I imagined the creatures that would live in them: ants and spiders and worms. They would throw cocktail parties and raise thousands of children and generally conduct big, important insect lives. When they were old and weary they would put their twig houses up for sale, move to a retirement community made from pinecones. I imagined what Jackson would think. They already have their own homes, he would say. The dirt is their home. I would protest, explaining that my homes were clearly superior, with windows and doors. Some even had carports.

I was working on a cabana when I heard the shot. A cloud of brown birds exploded from the trees. Then came a moment of total silence, as if every animal in the woods was holding its breath. I thought about running into the woods, trying to find Jackson, but I knew I’d likely get lost, creating even more trouble. And so I waited some more. I waited until the sun oozed behind the trees and the air cooled to the point where I felt chilly for the first time in a long time.

When he came out, he came out empty handed, his eyes red and his skin burned. He was shirtless; the flannel he’d been wearing was balled up under his armpit, visibly covered in blood.

“You killed it,” I said.

“Get in the car.”

“What happened?”

“Go on, get in.” This time his voice was gruff. He threw his gun into the back of the truck. The flannel he tossed onto the ground, not even bothering to look where it landed.

In the car, he turned on a CD, some twangy band I’d never heard of, and tapped the tune on his steering wheel. He was tense. Before he took the exit back to town he looked at me, smiled, and said, “You’re sexy as hell, you know that?”

Confused, I gave a weak smile and then turned to watch the fields give way to strip malls and apartment complexes.