She read somewhere that when impaled by a foreign object, one should not remove the object but leave it in situ for the ER doctors to deal with. That not being an option, Rose grasps the handle of the knife firmly, closes her eyes, and pulls straight up. Pain again threatens to unseat her. Liquid warmth pours over her leg.

Rose opens her eyes. Dangling from the knife, an inch above the dripping steel point, is the empty ape-skin glove, black and flaccid. Convulsively, she flings knife and glove from her. They hit the roof, then the ground, with a squishy thud and a clink.

She starts to cry, then stops. No point in crying when there is no strong shoulder to absorb the tears. There is nothing to be done but get on with saving herself. Trying to keep her squeaking and mewling to a minimum, she scootches, bumps, and inches along the interminable length of ridgeline. Each movement ignites a flare of agony. Rose tries embracing it. She fails. The seat and thighs of her thin rayon harem pants shred away as they drag over the rough shingles. Blood makes her hands and leg sticky.

Finally she is above the porch. She folds her good leg over the ridge and sits on the peak of the roof sidesaddle. Below is a ribbon of the concrete that she will hit if she slips. Arms trembling, she turns her body and lets herself slide until she is hanging belly-down on the roof, fingers clinging to the ridge. Forcing the bad leg out, she feels it drop over the edge of the main roof. With a heave, she rolls herself after it, and falls. The porch roof catches her. Such is the pain in her leg, the impact of landing is a nonevent.

Walking is less agonizing than crawling. Rose gets to her feet. Using the wall to remain upright, she navigates around the corner to the side window and collapses through. For a time she lies gasping in the ruin of her bedroom.

Blood pastes the fabric of her trousers to her skin from knee to crotch, but there is no pumping or spurting. Of course there isn’t, she thinks. Unless she is dead and doesn’t realize it yet. That happens more than one might think, stubborn life forces unable to let go of the attachments of an incarnation. They wander around wondering why nothing works like it used to. Pain convinces Rose that she is not a ghost, not yet.

Running on the power of self-reliance, born of utter abandonment, she does not dissolve into the inviting embrace of self-pity. Crab-walking backward on heels, butt, and hands, she reaches the bathroom and peels off her clothes.