A slight breeze rushes through the trees. I wait. Nothing happens. Greg does not get up. I don’t know what to do. I just wanted to make him understand what lengths he’d driven me to. A small plane flies overhead. Greg’s face is mere inches from the water’s edge. I gently nudge his head slightly forward with the branch. Water snakes past, lapping the bank, splashing his face.

I’m going to have to get help and explain that it was all an accident.

Something grabs my foot. I scream and drop the branch. Greg is holding on to my right ankle, it is unsteadying. He turns and stares at me.

I can’t stand it, I can’t cope with it, I have to make him stop. It’s freaky, like dead, staring fish eyes, and he won’t let go. He sits up. With his free hand, he reaches over and I see him pick up a serrated knife from his fishing box. I kick his arm. He drops the knife and tries to grab it. I lunge for it with my free hand and pick it up to threaten him, but he grabs my other foot, the knife is pulled from my grip and a pain rips through my recently healed cesarean scar.

As I fall back, Greg sits up. My pain vanishes as I focus on his eyes—he’s staring, but unfocused, as though he can’t recognize me. His right arm lifts, still clutching the knife as he leans toward me. I roll over onto my side to pull myself up, but no sooner am I on my knees, I feel hands around my calves as Greg pulls me toward him.

“Let me go!” I twist around to kick him but my aim is completely off. “Greg, it’s me, Marie! What are you doing?”

I reach for a large stone, grab it and throw as hard as I can. It hits the side of his head with a dull thud. His eyes bulge and—still—they stare at me but his arm drops and the knife slides to the ground. Thank God!

“Greg!” I say.

It’s the wrong thing to do, it snaps him out of his trance and he lunges forward, his hands grasp my neck. I can’t speak. I grab his fingers—they slacken as I pull them off. I scream. I see someone else... Camilla!

Greg turns around. Camilla picks up the knife as I back farther away. At first, I think she’s going to throw it in the river and try to run away with me, but a look of utter rage twists her features, her jaw clenches and she grits her teeth. Camilla raises the knife and aims for Greg’s throat. She stabs. He slumps back onto the bank, the knife sticking out. She clasps it tightly with her right hand as if she’s trying to yank it out, to have a fresh go.

“Stop!”

We both stare as blood oozes onto the soil. A horrible, gasping sound fills my ears. Oh God. It’s horrible. His eyes! I can’t look at his eyes anymore. One hand is slumped on his chest as if he was going to try to pull the knife out himself, but gave up.