Matt stopped and cut a swath of fabric from the bottom of his flannel. Then he bent down and soaked the fabric in bog water. His fingers picked through the sedges and grass on his island, searching for a stone. After plying his fingers into the pungent soil, he grasped one. He tucked the gritty stone into the swath of flannel and wrapped it. Then he dipped it into the water again, adding more weight. Satisfied with the heft, he reared back and let the material fly as hard as he could to the north, triggering pain in his shoulder. The flannel and stone whipped across the sky, high above the dead trees and disappeared.

He jumped to another island, this one quaking below him. As he regained his balance the island began to tilt, dead tree and all towards a pocket of water. Before it could take him in, he climbed up the soil hump and leapt to another. The new island received him well. Behind him, the previous island tilted and crashed into the water, the dead tree groaning in displeasure at finally meeting the goop which it had avoided for so long. Two wood frogs skittered away from the sinking hump.

As the water settled, a bone-rattling roar came from the east.

MOVE! the little voice said.

He leapt wildly from island to island, missing several and soaking his jeans and boots in the freezing water.

Please no more, he thought. No more jumping. He looked up, hands on knees, water jug half-empty thanks to a leak. Then he thrust his numb legs forward. Always forward.

Fifty yards ahead lay a bigger island, this one ringed by a smattering of spruce and balsam fir—alive, not dead.

He struggled his way over, sometimes executing perfect jumps, other times . . . not so much.

The roar came again, closer this time. Low-lying fog wafted between the dead trees, making visibility worse. He dragged himself to the edge of the last small island and prepared for one more jump. The black water lay still before him, almost smug. He went to jump, but his back foot slipped. Matt belly-flopped into the water, lashing small waves onto the bank. The shock of cold water and his fatigue pulled him under the black soup. Above him, the water jug floated on the wake like a fishing bobber. Silence enveloped the bog, as if no one had been slaving through it, as if it were a lie.

Underwater, he looked to the sky. Filtered sunlight shimmered above him in sepia waves. Dead trees circled him like surgeons who’d just taken off their masks, frowning.

I don’t want to come up, he thought. Why should I? This is peaceful. I should swallow the water . . . let myself become part of the bog. It’s not such a bad way to go, and it’s certainly superior to what the Being has in store for me.