Wyatt glanced at the old wooden fruit punnet he’d fashioned into a cot. It fidgeted. A little hand with fingers as plump as cocktail sausages poked up and Wyatt smiled. Mable was his world entire and he wanted only a world full of rushing rivers and meadow flowers for her to play in. Neither he nor Daisy would let a damn thing come along and change that, least of all a move to some town.

Something heavy landed with a thud out on the bridge. Wyatt set Daisy’s cup down on the dinner table and made his way outside, but it was only a piece of carrion dropped clean from the sky. The raven soon followed. It hopped along the decking, tucking its black velveteen wings behind its back like a man bowing just before the dance, and began to peck at its kill. It gagged, parting its beak to release one of its terrible calls. That damned purr. The devil’s purr. Wyatt swiped snow from the seat of the rocker and sat, pushing the chair forward with his toes to set it in motion, and watched the bird make light work of the mouse. The rodent was only small, barely enough flesh to fill a thimble, really. But it was enough to make him tremble. The raven’s black beak tore shreds of raw meat from the carcass and Wyatt put his foot down to stop the chair.

“Dang it,” he said. “Not now.”

He set his hand across his knee to steady it, observing the grey pallor of his skin against the stark white of his cotton long johns. He cussed himself for looking at the meat. He counted to ten and hoped the feeling would soon subside. But it made no difference. Saliva goosed the inside of his mouth. His stomach yawned wide, ready to devour the mouse and a thousand more little bodies just like it.

Wyatt bolted forward, lobbing the tin cup at the bird. The cup clipped its wings, clattering across the bridge inside the steam and the raven took off with its kill. Wyatt wiped drool from his bottom lip. His hand trembled. He cussed. Being made invisible to the Dead by their bite was the blessing. Sharing their hunger for flesh was the curse.

Beneath the decking, welts in the mud bubbled and burst beneath him. But after a moment or two, the earth settled and Wyatt’s hunger passed. He braced both hands on the arm rests ready to get up and fetch the cup, when he stopped.

The cup flew back. It broke clean out of the mist, somersaulting a couple of times, and smacked the cabin walls.

Wyatt smirked. “Daisy, your throw’s lousier than a drunk aimin’ for the piss pot.”