I slow the bike.

A hiss in the underbrush. Crackling leaves.

I place one shoe on the ground and whip around.

Something slides behind a trunk.

Something huge and dark and hunched.

Something that’s shaped almost like a human, but that gleams with thick black hair.

There’s still light in the sky. So they’re coming out earlier now. They’re getting bold.

“I see you,” I say. But I only say it inside of myself. They’ll hear me anyway. “I see you.”

The dark thing doesn’t reappear.

I climb off the bicycle.

Holding the handlebars, I walk toward the tree where the thing disappeared. I leave a few feet between myself and the trunk. Sticks snap under my shoes.

The air shifts as I get closer. Warmer. Hot.

I smell the smoke.

With a last step, I slip around the tree.

Nothing.

No hunched, thick-haired, bent-legged shape.

But on the trunk are claw marks. Fresh ones.

And lying on the ground, on a bed of fallen leaves, is a gift it left for me.

It’s a bird. A mourning dove. Pale gray against pale brown. Its head faces backward, its neck snapped. Its wings are spread but limp, the feathers ragged. There’s blood on the leaves around it. Just a few drops. All the blood that a small bird has.

They’re trying to scare me. Trying. All I feel is pity for the stupid little bird.

I am not their prey.

They can’t get rid of me, and they know it. And I can’t get rid of them. Not all of them. Not when they stay well hidden, slipping in and out of the gaps.

We can only touch the things that live between us. The smaller, more breakable things.

I take off the flannel I’m wearing over my black thermal shirt. Gently, with the soft fabric spread between my hands, I gather up the dead bird.

Then I climb back onto my bike.

There’s an old firepit behind Aunt Mae’s farmhouse that hasn’t been used in years. I rip up handfuls of grass, toss out clumps of moss. When the dirt is bare, I collect sticks and pinecones, old newspapers from the rain-bleached pile on the front porch. I get the big box of matches from the kitchen, the ones we use to light Aunt Mae’s ancient stove.

I place the bird on top of the heap of kindling in the center of the firepit.

The paper lights fast. The flames are so high and bright I don’t have to see the mourning dove dissolving inside. Only searing gold.

When everything is burned away, I head indoors.

“I’m going to do a load of laundry,” I tell Aunt Mae. She’s sitting upright on the couch, her hands shuffling a deck of cards. Half a game of solitaire is spread on the coffee table in front of her. “Would you like me to wash your blankets?”

“Well, that would be lovely. Thank you.” Aunt Mae rocks to her feet. She helps me wad up the crocheted blanket and the old yellow quilt. “While you do that, I’ll start on dinner.”