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Sometime around midday, the hot winds stirred again. The canopy swayed above, dappled sunlight fell onto the ground by Lady Mae’s feet. Though she was mostly shaded, she was sweltering and faint; her hand trembled when she held it up to her face. She’d foraged along the way—berries, some chicory, the heads of dandelion. It wasn’t enough; if she didn’t eat more in the next few hours she wouldn’t be able to go on. She counted her steps as she went. One was her mother and two, Arbuckle and three, the Deputy. There was four who was Edith and five, Ruby and six, the brothers who attacked her so long ago. Seven eight nine ten, all faceless but there just the same. They followed her, a bundle of missing limbs and whispers that whipped against her ears. There was a pulsing and a cry, and she realized it was her own heart against her breast, her own voice calling out.

In the late afternoon, the land leveled and the trees thinned. The sun shone down through the canopy, a bright stream that flowed from sky to forest floor. Lady Mae walked on, stumbling and delirious. Up ahead was the tree line, just past it a small structure. She felt a yanking at her heart, a pull down deep in her belly. It was his shack—she was sure of it—and so she stepped forward, her eyes fixed on the shelter she would soon have. If they’d left it alone, maybe part of him might still be there. But even if they hadn’t, he’d still be in there somewhere, buried deep down under stone.

Something moved to the right of the structure. It was a streak of black, perhaps a small bear. She had yet to encounter one, yet they were common this high up; she needed those traps. But then there was more movement, and she heard a man call out. She dropped to a crouch and crept along the leaves until she was behind a tree trunk she thought big enough to conceal her. She listened.

There was shouting, the slamming of a door. In the distance, horses danced. The Deputies had beat her there. That shack was the only proof that he had been—his own house burned, his body no doubt taken and torn apart. She had nothing of Arbuckle—no letter or book, no photograph.

She remained shouldered up to the birch and quieted her breath. The Deputies were too far away; though she heard their voices, she could not make out what they said. There was the low tenor of one, the high response of another, and others still. She’d done exactly what they’d wanted, played right into it. If they heard her, or saw a limb poke out from behind the bark, they’d be on her like wolves. And so she stilled herself and wondered what it was to even live if living was nothing more than one loss piled on top of the other until it smothered her. Maybe she should flutter her hand, put it out there where the Deputies could see. They would act fast, no doubt. Maybe it wouldn’t even hurt, and all that time she spent thinking of what it might feel like to lose something, well, maybe it was nothing at all. Maybe the loss wasn’t the thing itself—the finger or toe or hand—maybe the loss was the emptiness. What could have been. She looked at her own hands. The emptiness was there, right underneath the flesh.