All the skin is worn off their long, white skulls, exposing tooth and vein, their long antlers reach up like pale fingers. The deer turn to him as one, eyes bulging, white and empty, no irises, their shine bleeding in whispers of light, blurring their pale faces. He tries to scream, but his throat catches, clicks, and he is choking.
Blood-warmth runs down his neck, across the wing of his collarbone, soaking his shirt. He looks down. The front of his clothes is stained dark and dripping. His feet are bloody and bare. He coughs, trying to get up whatever blocks his windpipe. He folds to his knees in the snow.
The deer don’t move. They don’t come closer, just watch his struggle with their pale eyes. He coughs again, heaving, and up it comes at last. In his hand hangs a lump of bloodied flesh. He stares at it, gasping for breath, bright red slipping through his fingers…
Réal sucked air as he woke, jerking back in the bed and knocking the lamp off the night table. Deer shadows fell over his walls. He gripped the sheet under him, white-knuckled, blinking and blinking until the room slid back into shape, and the demons melted away.
Fuck.
He breathed hard, trying to slow his heart, eyes bulging. He was home; he was okay. He sagged against the cold wall at his back. Relief washed through him.
And then anger.
Why the hell had she done that? Just sat down in the dirt in the dark, and let him go on without her for God knows how long.
He threw the covers aside and swung his legs off the bed. The red glow on the night table said he’d only been asleep a couple of hours.
Before that, he’d just lain on his back and stared into the dark, working his bottom lip between his teeth.
He hadn’t even noticed she was gone. And when he had noticed, he had no idea how to find her again. He’d just swung his stick back and forth, calling her name, until he’d tripped right over her and they were both on the ground.
“What are you doing, Ev?” he’d spat, wet earth soaking the seat of his jeans, elbows pointing into the dirt. She hadn’t replied. When he’d shaken her, she’d rocked back and forth like she was already dead.
“Evie!” He’d scrambled to his knees, grabbing at her, touching her to see her in the dark. She’d been lying on her side, head in the dirt, hair full of sticks, but she’d been warm, breathing. “Evie, say something!”
He’d gathered her up into his arms, all dead weight and flopping. He’d pinched the skin of her waist. Only then had she gasped and come alive, like a swordfish in his arms. “Don’t touch me!” she’d shrieked, thrashing away. “Don’t ever touch me!”
Far cry, he’d thought bitterly, feeling that sweet moment in the car slipping away.
He got out of bed now and padded downstairs quietly. In the kitchen he drew a glass of water and stood at the sink, looking out the window through the hanging crystal doodem—Ojibwe clan animals—that his mom liked to collect. Marten and bear and elk.
The backyard was blue, getting paler with dawn. He could see the shapes of all his brothers’ toys scattered across the garden, returning to color. What was he supposed to do? If Evie was gonna be crazy, how was he supposed to take care of her? He swallowed the water, feeling it cool him from the inside.
Part of him wanted to just say, Fuck it. Fend for yourself. Not my problem.
But it was his problem. It was completely his problem. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t fought with Shaun. Hadn’t let himself get so damn mad.
He set the water down and raised his fingers to his lips, remembering her lips, remembering her weight on him, her skin and muscle and arch. His stomach tightened. Then he turned and went back upstairs. He dressed quickly and went out to his car, careful to close the door quietly behind him.
Réal took the long way. He hadn’t driven past Nan’s since the night he’d found Shaun. He came south along the cross street, then turned at the cemetery, coming up outside Evie’s a minute later. He parked on the shoulder and sat staring up at her black windows from the driver’s seat. The little gable in the attic stared back, empty-eyed.
When he’d finally got Evie home it was late.
They’d still had to walk out to the gas station, but on the second attempt he’d held her wrist so she wouldn’t slow them down again. She didn’t protest, so he’d fanned in the dark with his other hand, pulling her along like a dinghy.
When they’d emerged into the flickering fluorescents of the Mohawk, they were a disaster. Mud and twigs and little bloody scrapes, Evie dragging her feet behind him. But he hadn’t cared what they looked like by that point—he’d just wanted to get home.
And she hadn’t said another word. Had just loomed like a ghost while he’d thrown money down for the gas and hauled it, bumping against his leg, all the way back to the damn car. By the time they’d got to her place, he was beat. He’d pulled into the drive, dumped the car in Park and looked at her.
“Need me to come in?” he’d asked.
“For what?”
He’d rolled his eyes. “Not that.”
She’d blinked, then looked through the windshield. “Thanks,” she’d said. “Sorry.”
He would have answered, Don’t worry about it, or I’m sorry too, but she’d jumped out of the car before he could decide which.
Just before dawn, he shifted the driver’s seat back and leaned into it, crossing his arms and tipping his chin to his chest. He’d gone home angry all over again and lain awake, and then that dream, that mouthful of flesh…
He shuddered.
He closed his eyes and breathed, trying to let it all slide away.
E
Evie dreamed it. The sound of a car. That destroyed muffler.
