All her resolutions about killing rabbits by hand flew out of her head. The bunny was dead. The first living thing…Cara dropped to the ground.

“Oh no. I’m so—”

She caught herself. The [Singer] closed her eyes. The [Actress] stood. She composed her face. Her expression went slack, emotionless.

“I’ve skinned tons of animals before. Grew up on a farm, didn’t I? This is nothing new.”

She eyed the dead rabbit. But the pain in her chest didn’t fade. Cara walked over. She picked up the stone—threw it.

There was a fat, dark green leaf hanging from a tree thirty paces distant. Cara nailed it. She blinked down at her hand.

“Oh. I can’t switch it.”

She looked back down at the little bunny. Dead. Cara felt at her heart. She reached for it with shaking hands. Touched—

Still warm. Cara leapt away, shuddering. Then she slapped herself.

Crack. It was not a light slap. Cara’s own head rang. But she deserved it.

“If you can’t kill a rabbit, go walk back into the tomb and jump in a coffin, idiot! You killed it! You’re eating it! If you can’t handle it, how are you going to make it anywhere?”

The young woman stood. She breathed in and out, controlling her heartbeat. Then—she picked up the rabbit. It was warm. Her face was dispassionate. Her hands barely shook.

It was not a lie. Or rather, not a Skill. It was just acting. But it made her pick up the rabbit, by the ears, like she vaguely remembered hunters doing. Then she cradled it because that felt wrong.

“It might have parasites. How do I skin it? Let alone…”

The young woman walked through the forest with her burden. She was shaken. But now she was hunting for a sharp stone, a stick. She could at least start a fire. And she would soon. Didn’t you bleed meat? Or was that only to make it kosher?

She wished she knew. Cara walked on. First something to cut with—then she’d see if she could switch her one lie to something about being able to skin rabbits with her hands. The young woman walked on, unable to tear the little bundle of cooling fur in her arms. She thought of bacteria, disease. And she felt so guilty over the life she’d taken.

“Poor little bunny. Poor little wabbit.”

The young woman’s trail carried her down the meadow. Through sparse trees, growing in the light, although the sun was already setting fast. And onto the road.

Cara stopped. She looked down at the dirt road, a small foot-path leading just past where she’d walked out of the trees. It was no animal trail; someone had tamped the dirt down in a deliberate way and cleared the weeds periodically.