“Looks like we didn’t do it right,” she said into her coat, hoping Baptiste wouldn’t detect the heaviness in her voice. Baptiste only nodded. For the first time Baptiste did not twist her words back on her. He remained quiet, sitting beside her on the cold roadside. He sat close enough to touch her but he did not. She began to wonder if he was sitting beside her at all, if she was only wishing him back. She glanced at him sideways, not wanting to look at him and see the new bad times he had to offer. He held his hands together, a lazy man’s prayerful hands. She saw her name etched in his skin forever.

No one would ever love her like Baptiste Yellow Knife. No one would chase her with rattlesnakes, look up the outhouse knotholes to find her, wait for her everywhere, care who she liked, chase her across the countryside, carry her home. No one would ever love her like Baptiste again, with his love so hateful it made her wish for peace. She rocked the heel of her rubber boot into the gravel. She pulled her coat up over her head and was grateful her chest was warm.

She waited a moment for a response from Baptiste. The road was quiet. She thought she could hear the ice puddles cracking. She felt as alone as she had ever felt, alone from the roots and bushes, disconnected from the road’s path, separated from the trees. The mountains were the clouds. She pulled her head up from her coat.

Baptiste was no longer beside her. She looked around. She looked on the high road toward his mother’s house but he was nowhere. He was gone. She remembered the times when the thought of Baptiste Yellow Knife had risen in her throat like purpose. She felt herself fading from him, the knots of her hair loosening, her ripped clothing turning to powder. When she closed her eyes again she could see the pale sun.

It was Jules. Jules in his blister-blue truck, his headlights smoking. He had lifted her from the roadside and carried her to his truck. He had made her mad. She had slapped him for waking her when the good dreams had just started to come. The windshield was frosted with his breath. The moonlight was white. Jules had thrown two horse blankets over her. She could smell the sweat of horses from the scratch of heavy wool at her face. She couldn’t open her eyes even when she knew Jules was pounding the dashboard to wake her. The heater hummed. And she turned toward sleep. He slapped at her face until the roots of her hair were fire. “Christ,” he whispered. “Christ.” There was white moonlight. The curve of the river flashing. The sleepy shift of the truck rounding curves. And Jules whispering. Whispering to the sound of the slick hum of wheels.