It was worse than she’d thought. The laced boot had actually helped; with it off, the air hit open skin. Her stomach turned, her mouth watered. She had worn her heaviest stockings; the wool was shredded and stuck to the blood, crusted and brown. She slowly peeled the yarn from the wound so as to not open it up again, but it was of no use. Before the stocking was all the way off, she’d begun to bleed again. It was a slow trickle, but still. With her finger, she tried to feel how deep the wound was, but she stopped at her first knuckle, turned her head, and vomited.

When the sick subsided, she put her hands on the ground and tried to push herself up. The pressure on her foot was unbearable, and she fell to the ground and squeezed her fingers into her palms until her nails nearly pierced through. Even if she could walk, what then? The trap had been metal, the rust ample. Even if she made it to the ridgeline, she’d die of the poison that was already in her. If she were in the settlement, if she had her tools, she’d go to the depot and take the bottom of her leg herself. There she’d be able to clean it and cauterize the stump. She’d have grain alcohol, a leather belt to bite down on.

Now I’ll go the same as you, Arbuckle.

Ain’t going to let you, my love.

If she waited long enough, the poison that was surely inside of her would kill her. After all, what would it be to live now? She’d thought the grief would kill her when her mother died, but Arbuckle had been there. And when she didn’t have him any longer, not in the flesh at least, she’d had his letters. The letters—she felt down to the bottom of her satchel and removed the small stack, still held together with twine.

As the sun strode across the sky, she read them. One by one, she carefully opened each envelope and unfolded the paper slowly. Sometimes they were short, sometimes pages long, but there in her words she saw that justice had been in her always. But what good was it to her now? It had saved no one, barely even herself. It was too late, and she would die in the path carved by Arbuckle’s hands. The earth would hold her until she was no more, and as she disappeared into the dirt, the clay, the loam, she would be near him once again. They’d both tried to save the other from harm, and in turn had inflicted a finality upon themselves. At least she’d read the letters—all of them—before she gave into it.

She counted the letters. There were nine left. Each had her name written in the corner and had been sealed by her own hand. She took one, opened the envelope and took out the paper inside, but as she did another piece of paper fell to her lap. Expecting to see perhaps a drawing she might have made for Arbuckle, or a page she had torn from a book that he had sent her, she put the letter to her side and unfolded the extra paper. There, on the yellow, creased sheet was her mother’s handwriting, perfectly formed and looped from one side of the page to the other. Her heart slipped and tumbled its way down. Her eyes rushed, frantically trying to understand what she held in her hands.