Blood

A safe distance from Sweetwater, Sam calls a halt. All night and all morning they’ve traveled. True to Sam’s prediction, Lucy’s feet have blistered¹. Her eyes are gritty. She half dozes³, thinking of her feather bed. She wants a rest, a bite to eat. But Sam squats⁴ by the stream they’ve followed and sinks hands into the mud.
“This isn’t the time to play around with war paint,” Lucy says as mud slathers Sam’s cheeks.
“It’s to hide our scent⁵. In case of dogs.”
Morning’s risen on the decision Lucy made in the dark. Swift clouds race overhead. Without buildings to shrink the sky, she’s terribly exposed. This is the land freed of its frame, loosened from a deed, and it is huge and whistling and uncontainable. She stands at the mercy of wind and weather. No longer brave or wild as she felt last night, but puny⁶, sun-stunned, tired, hungry. She scurries⁷ behind Sam, whose stride loosens as they leave Sweetwater behind.
For five years Lucy let more and more of herself be buried. Sank into Sweetwater’s slow life like a mule⁸ in quicksand, too stupid to notice till it was half-drowned. While Sam, wandering, grew only more into Sam. Learning how to run, how to survive, how to escape dogs, how to spot who means them harm.
“You can still turn back,” Sam says.
Lucy glares. She slaps her hands into the mud. A familiar smell coats her, like the waters in mining country. Once she drank it down complaining. Now she makes herself breathe deep. She’s choosing this mud, as she’s choosing this life. She can no longer avoid the harder truths.
She asks, “Did you really aim to miss that banker?”
“No.”
“Why’d you lie?”
“I figured you’d leave me if I told.”
It’s Lucy’s turn to say, “I’m sorry.” Words alone seem

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