Jack nodded. “That’s a good idea. If she says your name, you come over. But only if she says your name.”

Matty’s lip trembled. “But … I want to stay with you.”

Jack felt his side dripping. The bandage. Soaked through. He turned and heaved up the little bit of water and apple and pancake. He couldn’t even get to the bowl. He drooped back on the blankets, full of rage, of inexpressible frustration.

He spoke madly. “Do what you’re told, dammit. Go.”

Matty got up and turned away.

Jack’s eyes began to burn. Blur.

Ava helped Matty to the other side of the piano and set him up. Plate of cookies and the cars and UNO cards. Jack could hear her reassure him. Then she went to the fire and got the pot of water and came back to sit beside Jack. She unscrewed the bottle of Betadine and washed her hands. Antiseptic smell. Then she removed the bandage. Carefully, without speaking, she began to lave water over the wound with a washcloth.

Pain, white-hot. Jack twisted on the blanket, moaned.

He heard Matty inhale.

Like a balloon released from a hand, he felt his body drift upward, become weightless, and he was lifting somehow, free of gravity, lifting from the dirty blankets and floating to a distant place.

XX

I once saw a deer get hit by three arrows and keep going. It took him a whole day to die. I followed him. I lost him for a while but then found him again, tracked him farther into the woods than I’d ever been. He was weaker by then, because of the arrows the hunter hit him with. Up close he was hurt worse than I first thought and covered in blood from the battle he’d fought. When he finally fell, I walked up and knelt by him. His hair was matted and warm and slick, and his ribs were rising and falling. Long ears and velvet antlers. He blinked and gazed at me. Dark lashes, his gentle brown eyes. I put my hand on his neck. I stayed there and looked in those eyes until the last of the light went away from them and his ribs were still. Then I got up and went home.

I think about that deer.

I see him all the time.

Ava pats the skin dry and studies the wound. Pale blood leaking from the torn flesh. Small pieces of cloth and dirt stuck in the tissue. A bit of rib bone peeking through. She takes the Betadine and tips the bottle over the gash. Jack doesn’t move. She picks up the tweezers and sets to work, picking out dirt and bits of lint, swabbing the blood. Moving quickly. Thread the needle and stitch. Slow, even. Calm. Just like he taught you.