Fuck. I am going to bleed to death at the bottom of this canyon and have my leg gnawed off by coyotes with cider breath. My children will be taken into welfare and Robert will say I told you so. Minutes pass. Pain begins to register in waves. I keep the pressure on until I can no longer feel my thumbs and still I hold them there until eventually the pulsing calms down. My panic subsides. I might not be about to die after all but I need to get out of here and quickly. My leg is tacky with blood from the knee down and stiffening up fast. I examine the nail. It’s eight inches long and thick with flaked rust and God only knows what else. Tentatively, I put my foot to the ground. There’s an unpleasant squelch. I unknot the laces with shaking fingers and ease off the boot. My entire sock is crimson with blood. I tip the boot’s heel. Blood spills onto the rocks and spreads out in a dark pool, and without warning I’m overcome with dizziness. Black spots form before my eyes, the ground begins moving beneath my feet like a listing ship and the world tips sideways. I cast around for something to hold on to but there’s nothing that isn’t spiky or unfriendly. Still I stay standing, willing the faintness to pass, but it’s no good; my legs and arms turn rubbery, my knees start to buckle as though somebody has thrust their hands into my body and whisked out all the bones, and now the black spots grow ever larger and begin to merge with one another until finally they block out the world altogether.

18

Consciousness returns in small fragments; sun creeping through gaps between logs; a section of corrugated tin roof; the itchiness of a blanket against my bare skin. There are men’s voices, a murmur of Spanish, feet moving around. I can smell tobacco and burning cedar. Smoke drifts lazily through the light. I turn my head. Duval sits at a wooden table, scraping at a piece of paper with a standing knife. He looks up briefly as I stir, then bends his head without speaking. I, too, say nothing. After all, to the traditional first questions of capture, namely ‘Who are you?’ and ‘Why am I here?’ I already know the answers. After a while, though, my head begins to clear and I push up on my elbows.

‘What happened?’

‘You fainted.’ He examines a piece of paper under the light.

‘Certainly did not.’

Duval pushes back his chair. Under the table, Taco raises an enquiring head.

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s just not very practical when there are so many sharp things to land on.’

‘What do you mean?’

He picks up my hand. I look at it stupidly. Four neat red splodges have seeped through a white bandage.