He walks back through the woods, arms burrowed beneath his hoodie, legs stiff. Snot frozen in his nose. Breath hanging in the air. Fuck, he chants, fuck, fuck, fuck. How did you not think. That this would happen. When you know that nothing is safe, ever, did you imagine that he would keep this for you, the way it is, as long as you wanted it, that the birch would be protected because you love them, because of P., because you are a fucking goddamn idiot. And now you have how many months? Before they come back? When you should have known, as soon as you saw the trees, as soon as you moved here, how to protect them, should have started the first night, it is your responsibility, but you thought you thought you thought. You were safe. Here. You slither through the fence, slip on the log covered in ice. P. drags you across by the wrist. You have to help me. Hush, beloved. Opening the back door. His father stirring a pot of oats for breakfast, turning to watch Xie slam into the kitchen, breathless. Hey, where were you? Xie brushing past. Xie, Erik calls after him; but he doesn’t answer, impatient, can’t explain, unlock the attic door, shut it behind you. Scrubbing your cheeks with the cuffs of your hoodie, What’s the first thing. The only thing you have to do now. Foot striking the mattress on your way to the bookshelf, jarring the body, calm down. Can’t. Hands fast through the stack, all the books about P., about saints, where did you put it, the one Peter lent you, jokingly calling it his “bible,” the only book on the shelf with a spine in green, not gold: Ecodefense. Eyes hungry on the pages: the words are everywhere, the ones you are looking for, see? Back against the mattress, the light crawling over your lap, the photographs of forests, the diagrams, the instructions, the very short list. Of what you will require. A hand. A hammer. A nail.