three

It takes a while, but the dogs eventually tire of their fruitless leaping. They still linger after that, not quite ready to abandon their prey, but when Alanna catches a scent in the breeze and takes off, the others follow. I wait until I hear the thunder of them chasing fresh quarry. Then I climb down.

Getting the guy out of the tree isn’t easy. He must be close to six feet tall, with an athletic build. I’m in good shape but barely five six. It takes serious effort and even then it’s more breaking his fall than lifting him down.

Still he doesn’t wake.

I conduct a brief examination with my headlamp. His pupils are normal. The blood on his shirt seems to be mostly from his nose and split lip, the facial injuries that tell me he’s been beaten. He’s breathing fine, but when I pull up his T-shirt, I see bruising there too. Someone worked him over good.

I’m accustomed to treating the fallout from Saturday night fireworks. The fact we’re in a dry county only means you shouldn’t walk the back roads on a weekend night or you’re liable to get hit by some asshole who picked up his booze next county over and couldn’t wait to open it.

But this beating isn’t frustration—it’s rage.

There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and when I touch it, his skin is feverishly hot. That suggests infection, but I don’t see anything worse than cuts and scrapes, none of them oozing pus.

I use both our jackets and some branches to fashion a makeshift stretcher, a little leftover know-how from the summer Edie and I worked at a Civil War reenactment site.

Edie Greene befriended me the summer after we moved here. She’d found me in the forest, sick from eating toxic berries, and got me to Doc Southcott. She’s the one who taught me to forage, hunt, and fish. Edie’s been gone two months. There’s nothing in Reeve’s End for a girl from the hills who dreamed of a career in fashion design. Also no place for a girl who found her gaze as likely to stray to the cheerleaders as the football players.

Edie would have done a better job with the makeshift stretcher, but it’ll have to do. I get the guy on it. Then, with my headlamp affixed and my knife within reach, I start out.

Any hope of hauling him all the way to Reeve’s End evaporates fast. My injured leg is soon screaming for mercy, and I veer to the shack instead, where he’ll be safe while I go for help.

I pull him inside. Then I spread my ground sheet between him and the sleeping bag to keep the blood off it. It’s an expensive bag, even if I did buy it secondhand, and I’m sure this guy won’t begrudge me protecting my investment. I’ve already potentially lost three arrows helping him. Slashed up my leg, too, but it’s my stuff I’m worried about.

Once he’s situated, I clean his face to make sure I haven’t underestimated the severity of his injuries. I haven’t.

I squeeze a few drops of water between his parched lips. Then I stretch the cloth over his forehead and run my hands over his scalp, searching for bumps. When I touch a goose egg, he bolts awake, hands flying out, knocking me back.

“Don’t move,” I say. “You’re—”

He grabs my wrist, and he holds me there, his blue eyes wide and unfocused.

“No,” he says. “No, no, no.”

He flings me away. “Go! Run! You need to get out of here!”

“I’m trying to help—”

“No! Just go. Now! Before…” He trails off, as if his brain sputters off midsentence. He blinks. Then he runs his hands over his face and winces as he brushes his split lip.

“You’ve been—” I say.

“You need to go. Now. He’ll come back.”

“No one’s coming back. I brought you here.”

He’s shaking his head, and I know he’s delirious from the fever and can’t process my words. I clasp his shoulders to calm him, but he grabs me again and, shit, he’s strong. Fueled by that delirium, he’s one good twist from breaking my wrists, and I struggle to get free, but he doesn’t seem to notice, just grips me tighter.

“You need to go. Run! As fast as you can. I’ll—I’ll take care of this.”

“I’m fine,” I say, trying not to panic as he squeezes my wrists. “You’re in my cabin. I brought you here. I need you to calm down so I can go for help.”

“Yes. Go. I’ll fix this.” He throws me off then, pushing me toward the door. “I’ll fix everything.”

“Okay, you lie down…”

Another vehement shake of his head. “No time. Just go.”

He staggers to his feet and pushes me toward the door. He wants me to escape his nightmare, and I realize the best way to calm him down is to pretend I’m doing exactly that.

I open the door. A startled grouse takes flight, the undergrowth crackling. The guy lunges and grabs me, saying, “No! He’s out there!” and I’m twisting to tell him it’s okay, but he’s put everything he has into that leap, and his injured leg gives way.

He smacks into me. My hands shoot out to break my fall, and I hear a crack, his head hitting the wall as he goes down. He collapses on top of me. I know he’s fallen, and it’s not his fault, but I panic under his dead weight, and I scrabble out from under him, clawing and kicking and—

Holy shit, Winter! Get a grip!

I stop short and crouch there, heart pounding. Then I see him in a heap on the floor. I crawl over. He’s out cold again.

No, cold isn’t the word—he’s burning up. Shit!

I make some effort to drag him back to the sleeping bag, but I’m afraid of hurting him, so I lay him on his back with my pillow under his head. I’m not worrying about bloodstains now. I’m freaking, knowing how dangerous a fever can be, but if I leave and he wakes up, delirious again…

Cell phone.

I don’t have one, obviously, but he might. I check his pockets. There are people I can call, people who will come if I ask. I don’t like to ask, but for this, I will.

His pockets are empty except for a wallet. I open that with some reluctance, feeling like I’m prying. No ID. Just money. A lot of money. A corner of my mind can’t help seeing a wad of cash like that and whispering that a twenty or two wouldn’t be missed. I close the wallet quickly.

Someone took this guy’s ID and left a few hundred in cash? Was he dumped, left for dead, his ID removed?

I look down at him.

What happened to you?

Forget that. I need to lower his fever so I can go for help.

I pull my backup water jug from under the baseboards. I take out ibuprofen, too, and bandages. The dressings can wait. First, I grind the painkillers into a glass of water. I tilt the boy’s head back so he won’t choke and then drip the water through his lips. I’m patient. Drop by drop until it’s gone.

Cold compresses follow while the ibuprofen has time to kick in. I strip him down to his boxers, lay water-soaked towels across him, and open the door to let the night air in.

When I return with the bandages, he’s already cooling. As soon as I’m sure the danger has passed, I shut the door before another kind of danger wanders in. Once he starts to shiver, I tuck my sleeping bag up to his armpits.

He needs a doctor. Which is a problem. Reeve’s End has exactly one—Doc Southcott, who’s gone out of state. I’ll have to get him to the next town, twelve miles over, beg a lift, as uncomfortable as that will be. He needs help. I will get it for him. That isn’t a question. I took on that responsibility when I followed his path, and maybe I didn’t mean to commit myself to this, but there’s no going back now.