“Finch!” I yell, turning around, scanning the willows and cattails. She was here last night or this morning, I know, but when? And whoever did this—were they here, too?
I spin, thinking about that day in the woods when we first saw Casey Winters from our hunting spot, high in the King of Trees, and I can’t say what it is but I start walking in that direction, south, pulled there, hoping. I shield my eyes, the sun rising, setting the valley ablaze. The King of Trees, its wide, white branches, stretched out and up. The small treestand we built and dragged across the valley together. Empty. She isn’t there.
A ruffed grouse darts from the brush, startled and startling me, its wings thundering into the trees.
I head closer, shimmy up the tree for a better look across the valley. The sun now blinding as it burns through the fog. The river murmurs, wide and white and resisting its banks, treacherously full from the snowmelt. Another unbearable thought: what if she fell in? I picture it—a small foot rushing and slipping, the river taking her. Cold. She wouldn’t stand a chance. Nobody would. I should’ve listened to her. We should’ve come down here together because if something happened, if it’s my fault, I couldn’t live with myself.
A muskrat scuttles into the water, lithe and quick.
I keep looking hard, focused, scanning the landscape: cattails, alder, swamp oak, all of it beginning to blur from the panic. I’m not sure I believe in God, but I pray, then. A muttered something. A beg. Please.
“Finch!”
For hours I walk the swamp, slogging back and forth, looking. No sign of her. At last I head home, sliding back down the ravine, my legs weak. The tiniest hope that maybe Finch came to the valley, found the body and the campsite, and turned home right away. Maybe she took a different route. I step across the ice-thick stream. As I climb the steep hill back toward the cabin, my eyes scan the rocks, like always. A habit. There. A tiny flash of pink. I take off running, scrambling up the slope, tired and out of breath and all those dens and their potential inhabitants and what if something or someone got her—
She’s there, head to toe in her camouflage with her one pink glove, huddled in a cave, balled up tight and not even looking at me. Rocking. I run to her, scoop her into my arms, and she is cold and wet, her bottom half covered in mud.
“I was too late,” she sobs into my shoulder, shaking bad. “We were too late.”
THIRTY-ONE
I carry her home, heavy and wet and limp. Shuffle through the pines as fast as I can. She’s probably dehydrated, almost certainly hypothermic—as close to death’s door as she has ever been—and strangely enough, I don’t panic. All that military training, it kicks in, and there is simply an emergent situation that needs attention, and I have the training and skills to handle it. I put the kettle on, open the draft. I help Finch out of her wet clothes and wrap her in a blanket and set her right in front of the woodstove, which by that point is already humming and cracking. Finch’s teeth chatter, her body shakes. I wrap my arms around her, rubbing her back. Friction, heat. But not too much, too fast.
The water’s warm. I dump a heaping scoop of hot-chocolate mix into a mug, fill it with water. I hand it to her but her hands are shaking too bad and she can’t hold it. I press it to her lips then set the mug next to her. I pour water into the stainless-steel bowl and dip a dishcloth in, wring it out. I kneel down next to Finch, pressing the cloth to her forehead, wiping away the mud that has caked to her face. Her cheeks are scratched from thorns: thin red lines, puckered in the middle. I dab gently, she winces and pulls away.
“You’re gonna be all right, sugar. You’re gonna be just fine.”
* * *
And she is, after a while. Physically, at least. I carry her to the couch, wrapped tight in her blanket, dry now, and warming. She sleeps and sleeps. I wake her every half hour to give her sips of hot chocolate, some broth made from a bouillon cube. The day trundles on; darkness sweeps in. I wedge myself onto the couch, prop her head in my lap.
As she sleeps, I leaf through her notebook. In the past, I’ve only done this by invitation. An effort to respect her privacy. But I decide recent events warrant an unauthorized look.
December 19th. We saw a beautiful girl in the woods with long, red hair. Cooper had a panic attack and had to rest. I was scared but I recited poems to myself. I saw a flock of turkeys. They came in close. Do you know how still you have to be for a turkey not to see you? Very, because of their excellent eyesight. I also saw a pileated woodpecker.
December 20th. I couldn’t stop thinking about the girl we saw in the woods. Who is she? What’s her name? Why was she there with her camera? I tried to get Cooper to play along and imagine, but he wouldn’t. （He is sorely lacking when it comes to imagination.） Anyway, I decided to go back to the valley where we saw her. So that’s what I did. She was back! She has set up a tent and fire pit. Sometimes she sings. I hope she will be our neighbor. I hope we can be friends. I saw three deer and four squirrels, as well as a red-shouldered hawk.