He reached down, gripped the knobby part of the leafy branch, and yanked. He made a sound through gritted teeth he never thought he was capable of making, more like a wolf than a human. Then he unbuttoned his flannel cuff and gently rolled it to his elbow. The wound was deep, but not something he’d die from. Blood pooled into the fleshy gash and spilled onto his wrist. A mess of miniature tart apples surrounded him in the orchard grass, a couple of them drizzled with his blood.

This is what original sin must have looked like, he thought. At least he still had his demented sense of humor. Ron had once told him if you can’t laugh, you’re not much use to anyone, including yourself.

He had the worst unfunny elbow ever and his arm was numb. Instinctively, he studied the birch trees that had spat him out.

Nothing.

A moment later bright pain slashed up his left leg. Matt pinched the edge of his bloody sock and peeled it down, revealing a gash across his ankle.

Head pounding and in disbelief, he checked his body like a cat cleaning itself.

Need to stand up, he thought. Need to make sure I can get out of here.

He placed his good arm against the ground and pushed himself up. His ankle and chest ached, but nothing like before. Once standing, he looked again to the northeastern edge of the orchard from where he’d flown through the trees. Suddenly his wounds didn’t seem so important. What seemed important was getting the hell out of here. Every cell in his body piqued with dread, the same way he felt at the funerals for his father and Stacey. He wanted to leave, and leave now. The voice had been right. He should have gotten in his truck last night and followed the little pooch down Julip Road until he was back at the highway. The highway was safe. He didn’t know why he knew that, but he did. His eyes widened like a spooked ungulate as his heart reverberated in his gums. The hairs on his forearms rose. He felt something, or someone watching him.

Should have followed your friend, the little voice said. Friend follow friend follow friend follow.

Once more he checked the northeastern tree line. A gust of wind swayed the tree tops all about, like pom-poms.

He ran.

Ten painful steps in, the anxiety voice shot through his brain like a cap gun. Don’t run! Running triggers chase instinct, Matthew.

Okay, okay, slowing his gait now. He brushed mushed apple from his jeans and looked back towards the northeast tree line. Then he turned and limped towards the shack, favoring his right leg. Soon the outhouse and the big aspen came into view. At once the hair on his neck rose.

Something was watching him.