I’m about to light into the crazy fool when she goes slack in my arms. I’m tempted to let her fall in the rain and leave her laying there. With my luck, she’d pick up that fucking chainsaw again and actually succeed in killing herself this time. Instead, I pick her up in my arms and carry her to the door of her house.

She might be pregnant, but she weighs next to nothing. She’s obviously not taking care of herself, another mark against her. I shuffle her body around so I can open the door, then I take her inside. The house is cool, almost cold. I walk her through the small hallway. I have to walk at an angle to prevent raking her legs or head against the pale blue walls. I get her into the living room. There’s a piece of crap couch in there with actual duct tape covering tears in the worn fabric. All the money Pistol made through the years and this is the shithole his sister lives in.

My stomach turns, and if the man were alive, I’d be sure to kill him again. Laying her on the couch, I then proceed to the small fireplace. Grabbing a couple pieces of wood that she has placed close by, I put them on the fire while raking through the red embers. It doesn’t take long for the popping and crackling sound of wood burning to be heard.

Glancing back at the woman, I see she’s still out. I think about taking her coat off, something to help so that she doesn’t catch pneumonia from being so wet. In the end, I do none of that. I don’t have it in me to touch her, and I don’t really want to look at her.

Instead, I walk back through her house, looking for the window that was broken. I find it in a small bedroom in the rear of the house. It’s obviously the room she is turning into a nursery. There’s wallpaper on the walls that’s a pale yellow about half way up the wall that has little stripes on it. The rest of the wall has been painted a creamy white and there are zoo animals hand-painted above the wallpaper. The animals are cartoon like, but expertly drawn. They’re all wearing some kind of strange article of clothing in yellow that matches the wallpaper. There’s an elephant wearing a yellow beret, a penguin wearing a yellow tie, a hippo wearing a yellow tutu, and I stop looking when I see a lion wearing a yellow hat and matching scarf, because by then, I see the window.

Raking my hand along the side of my face, I scratch my beard, and automatically search for the deep groove of the scar I have there. I shouldn’t bother. This isn’t my job. This woman isn’t my concern. Still, I find myself figuring out what I need to board up the window in here. If I don’t do it, the crazy woman will be back outside trying to saw the damn tree again. I look at the baby furniture in the room. Clearly secondhand, and though there’s nothing wrong with buying used furniture, these pieces are crap. They’re completely worn-out, about all they are fit for is a bonfire. Then I notice the crushed bassinet.

Something sifts through my gut that I can’t name, and I’m not about to investigate. Whatever the feeling is, however, becomes the deciding factor. I find a flashlight on her kitchen counter. The batteries are weak so the light is pale at best, but it will have to work. I go outside to the small shed by her house I noticed earlier. It doesn’t take me long to find the supplies I need.

The first thing I grab is an axe that’s hanging on the side of the wall, then take it back to the tree. I cut off enough of the branches so that I can physically push the tree, dislodging it from the house. The rain has slowed, but it hasn’t stopped, so that’s all I fool with for the night. Then I return to the shed to grab the ratty old piece of plywood and some assorted nails. It’s not much, but it will work until she can get someone out here to work on it.

When I go back inside, the woman is standing by the door to the room. She looks pale and there’s a tremble in her body that visibly moves through her when she sees me. I ignore it—and her. At least she’s changed into dry clothing, she must not be a complete idiot. I allow a brief glance. Apparently clothes that are three sizes too big for her are all that she wears. I begin picking up the broken glass and clearing the small room of the debris.

“I can do that,” she whispers. I ignore her, grunting as I continue to work. “You really don’t need to do all that. You’ve done enough,” she says again.

I grunt, mostly ignoring her, as I take the large pieces of glass and set them inside a bucket I found in her mudroom when I first came through the door.

“Broom,” I order.

She jumps, wrapping her arms around herself. “What?” she asks, but I don’t repeat, I only sigh in frustration and wait. She swallows nervously, then runs in the direction of the kitchen. She’s back with a broom and dustpan. She starts to sweep but I take the broom from her. She freezes and looks up into my eyes. I look at her wrist and I can tell there’s a bruise forming. I did that. The sight of it annoys me as much as she does.

“No,” I tell her, taking over.

She stands there watching me, but thankfully doesn’t offer to talk further. When I get the room reasonably cleaned up and the debris cleared out—even the tree limbs, I decide I’ve had enough. I pick up the broken bassinet to toss out to burn later when she speaks again.

“Please. Mr. um…well…Michael. Don’t do that. I want to keep it.”

I freeze and look over at her. It’s been so long since a woman has said my name, it feels weird to hear it. I’m not sure I like it.

“It’s broken,” I mumble, telling her something she should already know, and doing it while hating the sound of my own voice.

“I know, but it can still be used. I’ll take the top off it and just use the bed part itself. It will be fine.”

“It’s broken.

“I know,” she insists, a little more forcefully, her face flushing into a pale red. “I can still use it to keep the baby in my room,” she says, her hand trembling as she moves it across her round stomach. “It will work until I can afford something better,” she states, her voice sounds defensive.

Her feelings aren’t my concern.

I shrug in response, putting down the bassinet. I walk out of the room and can hear her following me as I reach the small mudroom. I have the door open, intent on doing nothing more than getting back to my space, my quiet…to be alone.

“Michael?” her soft voice reaches me, stopping me from leaving the room. Almost against my will, my head raises to look at her. “Thank you,” she adds.

I stare at her a moment and leave without a reply.