In some distant compartment of his mind, he is aware that the forest is beautiful. Despite the darkness and musty tomb smell, there is a silence and softness that he finds comforting. He runs his hands along mossy tree trunks as he passes, enjoying their texture. Like wool, he thinks. Like blankets. Her skin was—
Something shifts. He can still feel the moss but it has been reduced to information: Soft. Cool. Damp. He no longer understands why he is wasting energy touching a tree, so he drops his hands and walks faster.
He is in a forest. He is surrounded by trees. He is wearing a tie the color his blood used to be, and slacks the color his blood is now. He is tall and thin but strong for his build—he surprises himself by snapping a branch as thick as his wrist. He carries it for a while like a club, because the forest is dark and he has seen creatures that aren’t like him lurking in the shadows. Things that walk on four legs, covered in soft stuff like moss—fur—wolves. The forest is full of wolves, which he remembers are dangerous, and he feels afraid. But after a few hours the fear fades; he loses interest in the branch and tosses it aside.
It is becoming harder for him to maintain interest in anything but the hollowness. He is aware that tools and weapons might help him get what he wants, but what does he want? The hollowness seems to know, but it can’t be bothered to explain. It pulses and pounds with one vague agenda, reflexively vetoing all other initiatives, even ones that might help it achieve its goals—such as carrying a weapon. The tall man will get no help from these impulses. He must decipher himself by himself.
He thinks about the wolves. He understands that they are not like him and that they want to hurt him. Maybe he wants to hurt them too. Maybe that’s what he wants. Maybe creatures that are not like each other are supposed to hurt each other to find out which one is stronger, so that the stronger one can take the things it wants. A competition. A game. War! Sex! Football!
His eyes widen with these sudden bursts of insight. He is happy that he is remembering things. Perhaps soon he will have enough information to do whatever the brute in his belly is demanding.
“Hello?”
The thing under the tablecloth continues to heave. The bloodstain in the middle of the cloth is bright red. Spreading.
“Hey. Are you alive?”
Nora stands in the bathroom doorway with her hatchet at the ready. Addis stands behind her, trembling despite all his noble ideals.
Nora takes a step inside.
“Listen. If you’re still alive, you need to give me some kind of sign or we’re gonna leave.”
The cloth shifts slightly. A hand slides out from under it, palm down on the floor.
“Okay, that shows me you’re still moving, but I need to know you’re capital-L Living. So if you’re not Dead, tap twice.”
There is a long hesitation. The hand taps twice.
Addis grabs her shirt hem. She rubs his head.
“Okay,” she says under her breath and approaches the heaving mound. Holding her hatchet high, ready to strike, she pulls the tablecloth away.
Addis hides his eyes behind his hands and starts whimpering.
The man under the cloth is a certified giant. At least six foot five, probably two hundred-fifty pounds of the kind of hard bulk that looks like fat until you see it flex. He is bald except for some light stubble on the sides of his head, which expands into a beard surrounding big, soft lips. But what Nora notices most is the gaping hole in his stomach, slowly saturating his white t-shirt. It appears to be a gunshot wound, but it has been sliced open with two crude, crisscrossing incisions. A steak knife lies on the floor next to him, as well as two bloody dinner forks. Someone was trying to perform surgery using dinnerware for a scalpel and clamps.
“Hey,” she says. “What happened? Who shot you?”
The man’s pale blue eyes fixate on her, dilating unsteadily. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a croak. He makes a vague waving motion and closes his eyes as if to say, Doesn’t matter.
Nora lowers her voice. “Are they still here?”
He faintly shakes his head, eyes still closed.
“Who tried to take the bullet out? Is someone else with you?”
His eyes open. His hand moves like he’s trying to point somewhere, but he can’t summon the strength. He moves his lips on his next exhalation, and Nora hears the outline of a word, perhaps a name, but it’s too faint. A ghost. He closes his eyes again. Tears glint in the corners.
Nora feels her stomach clenching. She stares at the hole in his belly, its ragged edges and dark center, a well of blood leading down into his inner depths. A wave of nausea sweeps through her; drops of perspiration pop out on her forehead.
“Listen,” she says, “I’m not…I don’t know how to…” She gingerly touches the edge of the wound. The sliced flaps of skin spread apart and she shudders. “I don’t know what to do.”
The man’s head moves slightly. Nora would like to think it’s a nod. That he understands. His eyes roll into his head, then return to hers, still dilating. He is drenched in sweat.
Nora glances back at Addis. He is standing in the doorway, wringing his hands in front of his crotch and biting his lip.
He wasn’t wrong. They did the right thing. But they shouldn’t have.
She touches the man’s fiery forehead. “I’m sorry.”
He holds her gaze for a moment longer, then closes his eyes. A long, slow breath comes out of him and doesn’t come back.
Nora stands up. “Addis, wait outside for a sec. I need to do something.”
“Is he dead?”