How many?

Hundreds, Kant had said. Hundreds of lives cut short on this very hill, just outside her front door, then interred in the toxic ground.

She couldn’t recognize the land any longer or even tell which side of the hill they were on. Marsh led her according to some arcane plan, weaving around the trees, his tongue rolling free, froth at the edges of his mouth.

A stitch formed in Margot’s side. Each breath hurt more. She pulled on the collar, begging Marsh to slow, and he finally did. Black eyes peered up at her, unfathomably worried, his own pants echoing through the mist. She didn’t have the breath to speak but ran her hand through his fur, telling him she was okay, that he’d done a good job.

She’d lost her phone in the house. Without its light, she couldn’t check his muzzle properly, but there was no sign of blood, and when she peeled back his lips, she couldn’t see any punctures to his gums. He’d managed to escape the worst of the effigy, then.

Margot couldn’t say the same for herself. Blood trailed down her fingers, dripping from the cuts on her forearm, blending with the stains from the flowing creek. She tried not to look too closely.

Her legs shook. Her side continued to ache. She didn’t think she could run any longer, but she couldn’t stand still. Already, the dead ones were tightening around her, their creaking joints and heavy footsteps sending prickles of stress along her back.

“Good Marsh,” she whispered, putting her hand under his collar again so she wouldn’t risk losing him. “Let’s go.”

The tail waved once, twice, then the eyes began smiling again, and Margot couldn’t stop herself from marveling at his resilience.

They moved down the hill, Marsh trotting, Margot staggering. She didn’t have a clear idea of where they were going, just that they needed to keep moving.

In the distance she caught a trace of faintly glowing yellow light, and both Marsh and she instinctively adjusted their path toward it.

Dawn?

The word sparked a flicker of hope through Margot’s chest before dying out again. It wasn’t dawn. The light was too sharp, too focused, too small.

Flashlights.

They were growing closer now, and Margot could see the outline of Kant’s shoulders. She didn’t understand. He shouldn’t be here. She hadn’t called him.

Unless…?

Through the breathless ache in her side and the haze flooding her mind, Margot flashed back to the moment she’d realized the effigy wasn’t empty. Falling backward onto the floor, her phone had become pinned under her hand. She’d had the screen open to Kant’s number just in case.

Did I press the call button? I wouldn’t have heard it ring, not through the rattling of the Watcher’s trinkets.