What you want me to do, Arbuckle?

What you been doing your entire life, my love.

She walked quickly at first. Arbuckle must’ve cleared the path. How long had he stayed in his shack until he struck out to see what was on the other side of the mountain? How many times had his own feet walked upon the same soil? The air, damp and hot, clung to her.

There was a snap beneath her foot and a piercing of leather and flesh. She cried out and fell to the ground. The lamp crashed and broke, the flame extinguished. In the pitch black, she tore at her leg and foot and felt the trap’s teeth stuck in her just above the ankle. She saw nothing but sparks, heard nothing but the deafening silence of the forest. She rubbed her fingers together, felt the gliding warmth of her own blood; she could not tell how deeply she’d been cut, but did it matter? Her hands traced the trap until she found the release. She pried the trap apart, the long teeth rusty no doubt, and threw it off the path.

She had to stop the bleeding but had no tourniquet. She opened her satchel, searched around the tin cans, the ends of her dress, until her hands fell upon Arbuckle’s shirt. Lifting it out, she felt her way past the buttons and pocket to the sleeves. There in the pitch black of night she wrapped his shirt around her calf and tied the sleeves together as tight as she could, which was not tight at all. If the blood slowed, she could make it until morning. But the wound was deep. She’d need to clean it, cover the gaping punctures with cloth she did not have. There was no stream nearby, no small lake to take from. All she could do was wait until light, and so she sat there in the darkness, the depth of the night dancing before her eyes.

* * *

She woke with the sun. She had slept fitfully, had dreamed of Arbuckle. He’d been standing in the square, suitcase in hand. Lady Mae called to him, but he could not hear her. The clock tower struck, and he stepped toward the courthouse. She called again and again, but he did not turn around. She tried to run to him, but her legs were heavy with mud, and each time she picked a foot up, it was like fire on skin. She stumbled, her hands waving, but it was no use. Arbuckle disappeared into the courthouse, and she was alone once again.

As she sat up, she did so gingerly as each movement brought with it nauseating pain. She’d never been injured this badly before—not even when Edith threw the stone at her head. Arbuckle’s shirt was damp and dark; she had stopped the bleeding, but the gashes in her boot were large. She needed to get her boot off, her stocking, too. She untied the boot—took the laces all the way out—and slowly slid it off her foot. With each inch, with each pull, it felt like someone dragging a knife over her flesh. She bit her lip and breathed in once. Then she yanked the boot off her foot.