Anarchy ran his fingers through his sleep-tussled hair. “You’re sure you heard someone?”

“They were coming from that direction.” I pointed toward Sumner's cabin. Then I stepped off the porch.

“Ellison, wait.”

“Someone needs our help.”

“You’ve got the only flashlight.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Are you coming?”

We walked half-way to Sumner’s cabin, and Anarchy said, “Point the light downward.”

I did as he asked and saw a black puddle. Black. But the darkness washed away color. I gulped. “Is that blood?”

He bent, touched the wetness with his index finger, then smelled his hand. “Looks that way. What exactly did you hear?”

“A shriek. I thought it was a bird. Then I thought an animal was crashing through the brush. Then I heard my name.”

I couldn’t see his expression in the dark, but I’m fairly certain he frowned. “Maybe you should go back to the cabin.”

“And leave you alone out here? Not on your life.”

“You were on the porch?

“I was. Whoever called my name must have been in the woods.” I swept the flashlight’s beam toward the trees to our left.

“Hold up.”

I kept the beam steady as Anarchy studied a bush with a broken branch.

“This way.”

“Into the woods?” I squeaked.

“Give me the flashlight and I’ll go alone.”

I tamped down my fears (did snakes sleep at night?) and joined him.

A mosquito found me, then he told all his buddies about the all-you-can-eat buffet. The flashlight beam jerked as I batted away insects. Branches snagged my nightgown and scratched at my skin. I was in hell. There was only one thing that could make this trek through the woods worse.

“Anarchy?”

“Yes?”

“Do snakes sleep at night?” I held my breath, waiting for his answer.

“They’re cold-blooded creatures. They’re active in the daytime.”

Air escaped my lungs in a giant whoosh. “You’re sure?”

“You’re wearing boots.”

“But are they high enough?” I pushed aside a branch that had tried to take out my right eye. “And you’re wearing sneakers.”

An owl hooted, and I shivered.

“We’ll be fine.” He walked slowly, occasionally stopping to exam a branch or ask me to point the beam left or right.

“There.” He pointed.

Fifteen feet away, the flashlight’s beam found a woman's hand.

I stepped closer, and the beam illuminated the lower half of her body.

“Oh, no.” My stomach did a barrel roll. “It’s Buffy.”

“How can you tell?”

“She’s wearing cowboy boots with her nightgown.”

Anarchy closed the distance to the body, fell to his knees, and searched for a pulse.

“Is she?” I already knew. No way, no how, would a living, breathing Buffy be on the forest floor when there were snakes around.

“She’s gone.” He held out his hand for the flashlight, and I gave it to him.