She stepped off the deck and walked through the trees, scanning the broken branches that littered the ground and pondering her creative paralysis. Of course, the problem wasn’t that there was nothing to photograph—anything could become interesting subject matter with the right perspective. The problem was that the number of possible pictures was infinite, and each picture required an infinite number of decisions about composition, framing, depth of field, focus… In making even a single decision, she would be imposing her Mary Ellen–ness on the shot, and that prospect was even more frightening than the vertigo of infinity.
It was turning out to be easier to impose Justine-ness on her circumstances. A harmless game, really, but one that was helping her inhabit the resolutely spare house and its strange, half-rotten surroundings. She was actually kind of enjoying it—submitting to the possession, taking a much-needed vacation from herself and her dark, self-pitying thoughts. Even the way she dealt with Rose was different from how she spoke to her girls. She was more authoritative, more sure of herself. It wasn’t hard; it just happened, like one of those flying dreams. Suddenly, you’re just doing it, and you realize you always knew how, you just never bothered to try.
Something red caught her eye. She’d seen a few shell casings lying here and there in the snow, bright bits of red-and-yellow plastic, but as she drew nearer, she realized that this wasn’t an object; it was a stain, dark red and glistening. A few feet away she found another one, then another, and then she recognized the twin teardrops of deer hooves pressed into the ground along the way.
She followed the stains for a while, trying to read their story in the chaotic way they increased and decreased, sometimes gathering into a larger splotch, sometimes spattering like fireworks, the footprints punched through the crust of the snow for what seemed like half a mile or more. She couldn’t tell, but she knew it was a long way to walk for an animal losing so much blood.
She began to wonder if she really wanted to catch up to the deer—it would probably be an awful thing to see. But there was something so urgent and full of life about these scarlet spots, here among the black, dried-up branches and the white, impassive snow. The color of life was impossible to ignore.
When she found it, the deer was lying on the ground. Mary Ellen approached slowly, knowing what she looked like—a predator ready to take its advantage. “Shh,” she said, crouching down. “It’s okay. Don’t be scared.” The animal lifted its head and stared, its belly rising and falling rapidly. Mary Ellen could see the shotgun wound in its side, a messy gash with a stream of syrupy blood running down and accumulating on the snow. The deer thrashed and struggled to its feet, stumbled a few steps, and then fell onto its front knees, where it stayed for a few moments, probably trying to locate the strength it needed to get back up.
Mary Ellen stood up and looked around. “Hey!” she cried out. “Your deer is here! It’s still alive!” Her voice sounded pinched and weak in the vast silence of the mountain. “You have to do something!” The deer’s head was nodding. It tried once again to raise itself but slumped forward with a crash. Mary Ellen cried out, turning away from the sight, pressing her glove to her mouth. She pulled the lens cap from her camera and put her eye to the viewfinder and turned slowly, the camera like a shield, stepping closer to the deer. She twisted the lens, the animal’s black eye zooming into focus. It was so dark and bottomless, she felt like she could fall into it and never find her way out. She put her finger on the shutter and held her breath, but before she could press the button, the eye rolled back, flashing white, and the deer arched her head back and bawled, “Bwehhh-oh.”
Sharp, nasal, pleading, the two syllables vibrated deep in Mary Ellen’s chest. “Bwehhh-oh,” the deer screamed again. Help me!
Mary Ellen gasped and stepped backward. Clutching her camera to her chest, she turned and started running, back the way she’d come, her feet crashing through the undergrowth in clumsy, terrifying slow motion. She stumbled, almost dropping her camera, then righted herself and looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of a fluorescent-orange vest, a camouflage cap, something. “Hello?” she cried. “Your deer!” The only response was the creaking of the trees.
She started running again, her hat sliding down over one eye, her camera’s lens cap bouncing crazily on the end of its tether. She followed the blood trail, hoping to find its origin and, nearby, its creator. But when she drew close to the ravine, she saw the trail veer off the right, in the opposite direction from Justine’s house. Mary Ellen stopped, slung the camera around her neck, and bent over, hands on her knees, great gasps of air billowing out of her. She straightened and looked around, listening for footsteps, trying to think what to do. Maybe the hunter would find the deer on his own and put her out of her misery. But what if he didn’t?
Some passing crows barked hoarsely in the sky, and the sound filled Mary Ellen with loneliness. She turned to the left and hurried back toward the house. When she got inside, she found Rose upstairs in the kitchen. Mary Ellen stripped off her hat and gloves, still out of breath, and threw her camera down on the counter.
“What’s—” Rose pulled her head back, narrowing her eyes.
“A deer,” Mary Ellen panted. “She’s been shot. She’s still alive, she’s in terrible pain, we have to do something.”
“Like what? I don’t—”
“I don’t know. I think we have to put her out of her misery.”
Rose stared at Mary
