The squirrel was perched warily on the opposite bank, rocked back on its haunches and regarding a straight line of acorns with suspicion. It chattered again, letting the whole woods know he was uneasy with the situation and unsure what to do about it. At the other end of the line of acorns squatted a little girl.
Her arm was outstretched, palm up, beckoning the squirrel to come closer. She was filthy, her face streaked with grime except for two clean rivulets streaking from her mouth where she’d drank from the stream. Her tattered shoes sucked at the mud as she tried to lure the squirrel closer. The sharp corner of her elbow poked through the worn crease of her sleeve.
The squirrel continued to chatter at the girl, while taking hesitant steps closer, stuffing acorns into its mouth. Lynn spotted the Streamers’ campsite thirty yards downstream. Someone had dragged a fallen tree over to a live tree with a fork growing in it, propped the dead one into the notch and stacked branches along the sides to provide some cover. It wasn’t a bad idea, but they’d neglected to put any mud or leaves over the branches. It might provide the barest shelter from the wind, but rain would drip in constantly, and it would hold no heat. A pile of half-burnt sticks lay in front of the opening.
No matter how badly it was made, the person who built it would’ve been much bigger than the child kneeling in the mud. Lynn kept her eyes on the shelter as she moved closer to the bank. Left on her own, the child would die, and soon. Even if she were successful luring squirrels, she had no way to cook meat and no source of heat. Even a stocked pantry wouldn’t save her once the snow fell. She would die of exposure, leaving a small white skeleton to be carried away by the swollen spring river.
That image caused Lynn to fire her rifle before she was aware she’d made a decision. The squirrel’s chatter stopped instantly, its body blown sideways. The girl jerked to her feet, oblivious to the fine spray of blood that flecked her pale face. Lynn crossed the stream with the gun pointing downward, hoping the girl would realize she meant no harm.
But the harm had already been done. When Lynn picked up her kill by the tail and presented it to the girl, her bottom lip shook.
“Cha-Cha.” Her tiny voice barely escaped her mouth before evaporating in the cold afternoon air. “You killed Cha-Cha.” The resounding wail that followed was much stronger, and Lynn dropped to her knees beside the child as tears started to spill forth.
“Stop!” She spun left and right, nervous that they would draw attention. “Stop, please stop.” Lynn put her hands on the tiny, sharp shoulders, alarmed at how near to the surface her bones were. “I’m sor—”
The blow came from above and to the right, knocking Lynn into the stream, her rifle spinning out of reach. She flailed wildly, gasping for air before she’d cleared the surface. A rush of cold water filled her lungs and she scrambled for the bank, where she retched it back out. She’d lost her hat; cold, wet coils of hair hung in her face and she swiped them away, searching for her attacker.
“Christ,” said a male voice. “It’s a girl.”
He was standing in front of the child, his arms spread wide to shield her, a thick branch in one hand. Lynn clutched her midsection, still queasy from the feeling of water rushing into the dark internal corners of her body. Her gun was lying in between them on the bank, but she made no move for it.
“Yes,” she said, “I’m a girl.” She struggled to her feet, alarmed at the unsteadiness in her legs.
He dropped his makeshift weapon and grabbed the child, pulling her in front of him. “Take her,” he pleaded. “Take her with you.”
“What?” Lynn crossed her arms over her chest, shivering in her soaked clothing.
The little girl recoiled, clutching at the boy and wailing incoherently. He pushed her toward Lynn, leaving small muddy ditches in the wake of her feet.
“Take her,” he repeated. “I can’t . . . I don’t know how.”
Lynn backpedaled away from his reaching arms and their struggling burden. Her unsteady legs folded underneath her, and she landed in a clumsy tangle of limbs and wet clothing. The child was shoved into her lap and instantly kicked her in the jaw. Lynn went over sideways, clutching her face.
The boy lifted the girl bodily in the air, shaking her with frustration. “You’ll die,” he screamed into her face. “You stay here with us and we’ll all die!”
A slow, building groan filled the forest, a sound so odd that hackles rose on Lynn’s neck and she dove for her gun. The boy didn’t try to stop her. His arms went slack at the noise, and the little girl puddled to the ground at his feet.
“Mama,” she wailed, fresh tears cutting paths in the grime of her face. “Mama.”
“Everything’s okay,” the boy shouted toward the makeshift shelter, and Lynn’s grip on the rifle relaxed. “It’s all right,” he said again, voice quivering with the effort of yelling. “Lucy’s fine, she’s right here with me.”
The noise subsided, replaced by the small whimpering of the child kneeling in the mud. “Mama,” she said again, peering anxiously at the tent.