But they called out for her down the path. In a direction Margot hadn’t been yet. A direction Margot wouldn’t go.

She waited.

She waited.

She waited.

Then she could wait no more.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the owl.

Then she worked her way down the rough wet trunk. When her black dance shoes touched the dirt, she thought,

Now…reverse it all.

The officers couldn’t have known that Margot’s method through the North Woods was more simple than that of The Hedges. With the winding of the paths it would have been hard to say what direction they were going. They weren’t paying attention to her. They were looking for Wayne Sherman.

But Margot had simply made a right every chance she had.

Margot hoped they would get lost in the woods forever. Go mad like the indigenous chief. Stumbling into one another until they died of starvation.

She just hoped they wouldn’t find Wayne Sherman before then.

She ran.

She silently thanked the Great Owl again.

She prayed for Wayne Sherman.

26

The story Molly whispered to Wayne was incredible. The words didn’t just evoke images but conjured them out of the dirt he knelt upon. Huge ideas explained in a language so graceful Wayne didn’t even know he was nodding until his neck started to hurt from it.

Molly continued to whisper.

Wayne’s eyes were closed. He listened, his hand in hers. There was no reason to worry…no reason to run…

She whispered…and the story she told was a story Wayne had been waiting to hear for twelve years. A story that explained death and loss and loneliness. A story that gave good reasons for each. The frenzy in which he had built The Hedges was clear to him now…

Molly continued to whisper.

The voice was like medicine for twelve years of pain. Twelve years of sadness, frustration, rebellion, anger, hate—

Wayne suddenly felt something like a hiccup in his chest.

Molly held his hand tighter. She continued to whisper.

Wayne felt a tightening in the muscles of his chest, something pressing down on his shoulders. He was cold now. The rain felt colder, too.

He gasped, trying not to interrupt the story, the whispering in his ear. But he couldn’t help it, something was happening, his fingers and toes, hands and feet…

“Molly,” he said. “Stop.”

The woods got darker. The trees, it seemed, were trying to strangle something out of him.

Now it was happening to his ankles and his wrists, his lower legs and forearms. He could feel it, could feel the blood receding.

Retreating.

Going home.

Molly continued to whisper but her words were confusing now. Absurd images with no meaning, phrases from a children’s television show.

Wayne felt a heaviness in his chest. Like it was bloating. Like he was being pumped with vinegar.

It hurt.

He opened his eyes.

“Molly?”