A hundred trees a night. Three nails to a tree. Starting at the north end and working in rows, left to right. He strokes the first damp trunk. His forehead against the bark. The nail pulled from his pack, cold through the gloves: Start at the top. Hold it at an angle. Cocks his arm. Fingers trembling so hard he drops the nail once, twice, bending to feel for it in the dark, wiping his head on his sleeve, please god help me. Holding his breath. P. behind him. Steadying his arm. Bring it down, three times, the nail only halfway through. Now it is the tree that trembles. Lift the hammer again. Clip the head of the nail with the bolt cutters, catching the knob of metal in his fist. The nail flush with the flesh of the tree. Beloved. Kneel at the base. Make the mark, fresh X just above the root. And then up, to the next tree, the moon slipping down through the trunks, dim, dimmer, cold sweat beneath his hoodie, hands wet beneath the gloves, the flesh of the birch much harder than he imagined, the nail squealing through inch by inch, the head of the hammer stuttering across the bark when he misses. Pain from shoulder to knuckle, relentless, he is drunk with it by the fiftieth tree. It hurts them, too, he knows. Don’t flinch. I love you. I’m sorry. His arm burning all through the flesh, the bone, deep ache in his elbow, in his back, dropping nails when his fingers go numb, fumbling with the pack, losing his grip on the bolt cutters, can’t close his hand, blistered skin turned to jelly. He laughs, weeping, he had no idea how weak he was, how fucking useless. Sunk on his knees in the mud. You’ll never do it. You stupid crazy idiot you’ll never get them all and if anything happens to them it’s your fault. Get up. P. says, but Xie stays on his knees, hands loose at his sides, I can’t. P.’s hand in his hair, wrenching his head up. Holds it. Look. And there, against the white bark of the tree before him, a perfect line of blood, falling from crown to root. No sound. No light. There is no P. The wet trunk. Can’t hear himself breathe. The blood is slow, too slow, endless, he knows it will keep coming, calm, inevitable, reflected in all the silver in the air, slow motes of dust, of ash, and the smell of burning: am I a tree now, too? Am I

Or do you think there is a sign where there is no sign