“Fun stuff?” I call. I try to catch up, but the low limp I manage, holding on to Max’s collar, won’t allow it. “What do you have in mind?”

“We could count the eggs at the beach, if Max is staying home. I’m meant to be tracking the nesting, but I’ve been a bit distracted by war nonsense.”

He says war nonsense jauntily, over his shoulder like it’s a game, then disappears around the bend.

Max lets out a high whine, digs his paws into the dirt, and starts to squat.

“You have got to be kidding me. Now?” I shake my head, laughing. “Daft. Dog.”

I reach for a leaf and start sweeping the mess off the path before I think better of it. Bad enough that I apparently nearly burned the grove down at least five times a week for the past seven years; I should probably at least see if John’s got a bag I could use. Can’t have the Lady of Lute acting this irresponsibly.

I hobble back with Max, wearing a sheepish smile in readiness for the request, but I hear something and stop. It’s a near-silent rumble I feel in my stomach more than my ears. Did John move the truck? Maybe there were tools he needed to—no.

A jolt.

The birds have all stopped chirping. I can only hear my breath now.

He left. It was the truck hitting that ridge, rattling the flatbed.

My back starts to cramp. I can hear my heartbeat now too.

It’s fine, he’ll come back. Or we’ll walk home, me and Max.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

I need to rig up something to tie to Max’s collar. One of the ivy vines on the old stone wall, maybe.

I scan for bindweed as I pick my way over the roots, across the little stream, back out of the grove.

A natural leash. John will laugh when he—

I stop. Everything.

Stops.

The truck is here.

It’s got him. John.

It’s got John pinned to an oak. There is no break between the bumper and the wood. There is no middle of John.

His eyes are open.

Mouth open.

Blood trickles from it. A slow creep.

“John?” I can’t hear my voice. It’s not a question. It’s a plea.

I’ve never seen a dead person, but I’ve seen wax figures in a museum, and that is what John looks like. His eyes are not real eyes. He’s gone, my friend is gone. The truck.

It rolled.

That was the sound; he must not have put the hand brake on.