I move through the trees.
Pine needles and dead leaves whirl under my feet.
There is nothing here that can scare me.
Delay me. Yes. But only if I fall behind.
And I’m fast.
I’m faster.
I’m lighter.
I barely touch the ground.
I skim through the shadows. It’s not morning yet, but the darkness in the sky is starting to weaken, rinsed at the edges like a stain in cold water.
Light will come. Inevitably.
But now they’re here. They’re everywhere. Seeping out of the roots, hiding in nooks and hollows. Teeth and claws and too-long arms. Silent, black-furred feet. They’d like to snap my neck. They’d like to tear me into pieces.
But they can’t. Not them. I know them. I know everything I need to know.
It’s been a long night. My arms ache. My hands are sore. But the scratches and scrapes, the one bad slash under my eye, have already healed. It’s the delicate little ones like Frankie who sometimes put up the toughest fight.
I circle the sagging shed, again and again, dead leaves flying, scattering drops of river water from one of Aunt Mae’s empty bottles. The ring of stones gleams.
Very faintly, through the layers of walls and soil, I can still hear her screaming. But she’s getting tired. She’s hoarse. She’ll stop soon.
And no one else will hear even this wisp of sound.
No one can get close.
No one will find her.