louder than it ever has, louder than it knew it could, hit, in the hip, and flinches back, away, sudden, to the edge of the branch-cave. Looks at Etta, blinks, blinks, confused, afraid, then disappears, away. There is blood all along Etta’s side; she doesn’t know whose it is. She falls unconscious.
When she wakes she is in the back of a moving vehicle. You’relucky, says someone, a face that’s mostly beard poked around from the driver’s seat. You are one lucky lady, lady. Lucky for that gun, and lucky it’s old enough to be loud enough for me to hear from my place; I got pretty thick walls. Etta’s leg is wrapped in plaid cotton. A shirt. Red and green and blue.
It takes them four hours to reach the nearest hospital, over dark, bumping forest roads. Etta tries to stand but the nurses won’t let her. They lay her on a stretcher and strap down her arms and legs. They ask, Is there anyone we can call?
O r,
E tta is passing through somewhere, a town, Thunder Bay, and the sun is setting, and she needs to hurry up to be out of town, back in the wild to sleep. The streets are emptying of people, little by little as the dark creeps down and the streetlamps twitch on. Etta tries to increase her pace, bigger strides, more steps, but it’s the end of the day and she’s been walking since sun-up, since six or so; she’s tired. She comes to a split in the road, opening up to a park. She can walk straight through it, the direct route, or keep to the road with the sidewalk, lamps, houses warmly lit, and go around, twice as far. She lifts a metal latch and pulls a gate open toward her, she’ll go through the park, be through in five minutes. She straightens up and grips her bag with both hands, as, from somewhere close, a siren sounds.
The adrenaline of the dark revives her legs, and Etta’s almost all the way across the park when she notices the small pack with smoke curling from their heads in tendrils like hair extensions. Young. Maybe fifteen or seventeen. Like the students she used to teach, likeOtto and Winnie and Russell. There are three boys and one girl, all with cigarettes except one boy, the shortest. They hear Etta before they see her, before she sees them; they’re ready. Casually, they open up to form a line, a fence with their bodies across the path. Hey, says one, a boy with a winter hat on, even though it’s not winter, What you got in your bag, lady?
Etta, still a teacher, always a teacher, raises an eyebrow. Well, she says, I don’t think—
You should show us, says the girl, interrupting, stepping closer.
I don’t think—says Etta again, calm, eyes forward, at the not-smoking boy, at his blue fleece hood up around his still pudgy face, that you should be, while reaching around, the rifle, is it too soon for the rifle? They’re just kids.
It’s late, she says, what about your—
Or, I guess, we could just take a look for ourselves, the first boy again, the winter hat. He lunges forward, grabs, knocks Etta down. The girl follows her down, her face close enough for Etta to smell the beer, cheap. Etta, instinctual, closes her arms around her bag, its socks, crackers, chocolate, writing paper and pens, closes her eyes before the first blow, the girl’s smaller fist, into chest, between clavicles. A basketball shoe to her side, and another, and then everything, everywhere, kicking and hitting and harder and harder, her body is made of paper, tearing, and is that blood or spit on her face, and Etta releases her grip, covers her face with her hands, and the bag falls away, is grabbed up before it hits ground. And then they are gone. Crackers, chocolate, writing paper and pens. The rifle still on Etta’s back, digging in. She lifts her hands away, off her face. It hurts to breathe. Her ribs won’t rise and fall properly. There is a split in her lip that stings with each inhale. The little bits of starlight blur and dance. She turns her head away from them and her spine shootswarnings, don’t
When she wakes she is in the back of a moving vehicle. You’relucky, says someone, a face that’s mostly beard poked around from the driver’s seat. You are one lucky lady, lady. Lucky for that gun, and lucky it’s old enough to be loud enough for me to hear from my place; I got pretty thick walls. Etta’s leg is wrapped in plaid cotton. A shirt. Red and green and blue.
It takes them four hours to reach the nearest hospital, over dark, bumping forest roads. Etta tries to stand but the nurses won’t let her. They lay her on a stretcher and strap down her arms and legs. They ask, Is there anyone we can call?
O r,
E tta is passing through somewhere, a town, Thunder Bay, and the sun is setting, and she needs to hurry up to be out of town, back in the wild to sleep. The streets are emptying of people, little by little as the dark creeps down and the streetlamps twitch on. Etta tries to increase her pace, bigger strides, more steps, but it’s the end of the day and she’s been walking since sun-up, since six or so; she’s tired. She comes to a split in the road, opening up to a park. She can walk straight through it, the direct route, or keep to the road with the sidewalk, lamps, houses warmly lit, and go around, twice as far. She lifts a metal latch and pulls a gate open toward her, she’ll go through the park, be through in five minutes. She straightens up and grips her bag with both hands, as, from somewhere close, a siren sounds.
The adrenaline of the dark revives her legs, and Etta’s almost all the way across the park when she notices the small pack with smoke curling from their heads in tendrils like hair extensions. Young. Maybe fifteen or seventeen. Like the students she used to teach, likeOtto and Winnie and Russell. There are three boys and one girl, all with cigarettes except one boy, the shortest. They hear Etta before they see her, before she sees them; they’re ready. Casually, they open up to form a line, a fence with their bodies across the path. Hey, says one, a boy with a winter hat on, even though it’s not winter, What you got in your bag, lady?
Etta, still a teacher, always a teacher, raises an eyebrow. Well, she says, I don’t think—
You should show us, says the girl, interrupting, stepping closer.
I don’t think—says Etta again, calm, eyes forward, at the not-smoking boy, at his blue fleece hood up around his still pudgy face, that you should be, while reaching around, the rifle, is it too soon for the rifle? They’re just kids.
It’s late, she says, what about your—
Or, I guess, we could just take a look for ourselves, the first boy again, the winter hat. He lunges forward, grabs, knocks Etta down. The girl follows her down, her face close enough for Etta to smell the beer, cheap. Etta, instinctual, closes her arms around her bag, its socks, crackers, chocolate, writing paper and pens, closes her eyes before the first blow, the girl’s smaller fist, into chest, between clavicles. A basketball shoe to her side, and another, and then everything, everywhere, kicking and hitting and harder and harder, her body is made of paper, tearing, and is that blood or spit on her face, and Etta releases her grip, covers her face with her hands, and the bag falls away, is grabbed up before it hits ground. And then they are gone. Crackers, chocolate, writing paper and pens. The rifle still on Etta’s back, digging in. She lifts her hands away, off her face. It hurts to breathe. Her ribs won’t rise and fall properly. There is a split in her lip that stings with each inhale. The little bits of starlight blur and dance. She turns her head away from them and her spine shootswarnings, don’t
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