The shade lifted from the window and the breeze was cool. Moonlight moved on the linoleum like water, the color of cow-pasture creeks: Dead Horse, Crazy Woman, Magpie, Lightning, Revais, I whispered the names. I knew something was waiting to happen. I stood near a wide river, pressed my foot in water. I felt nothing but the pulling. The pulling down. I remembered what Railer said when we were investigating a complaint near Nairada and had found a dead man in Clear Creek. His words sizzled on my saliva-thick tongue. We are all just ghosts waiting to happen. I held on. I reached out and put my hand on Louise’s thigh. She was fever-wet and smelled like the raw split center of a spud. The sun was red at the back of my neck. A hot wind dried my scalp. I was not dreaming.

I sat up to catch her and saw pinpoints of light circle my glances. The light was so bright my pupils failed. I struggled from sleep to find Louise standing at the foot of the bed balanced on crutches.

“You were dreaming,” she said.

She had brushed her hair. It hung smooth and straight over her shoulders. She was ready to be going.

“Lie down,” I said. I was groggy with early morning, not sure what I was seeing. I propped myself up.

She stopped at the door and then opened it fast. I jumped up to stop her. Punched the door shut with my fist. She backed away from me.

“I’m sorry to find you’re like all the rest,” she said.

“No,” I said. “Please, Louise, sit down.” She hesitated, watching me. Then she sat down carefully on the bed, balancing her cast leg. I pulled the pillowcase off my side and began to rip it.

“Take off your dress, now.”

I went into the bathroom and grabbed the clean washcloth. I folded it and wrapped it in the sheet strips. She had slipped her dress off her shoulders. Her skin held the copper light of October. I could see the delicate trace of her ribs, the bones of her spine. Her hands were very still on her knees. She sat straight, poised in her near nakedness as if I were going to sketch her. She trusted me and I was grateful.

She had turned the old rough bandage inside out and had put it back on. It had dried a little but it still smelled awful. I eased the tape off and gave it a toss toward the cobwebbed ceiling. She smiled away from my glance.

I felt like an asshole. I had become a man worse than the husband who had beaten her. I had wanted more from her than Yellow Knife. I had seized the opportunity of her suffering to be near her. I was the worst kind of fool.