Summer

He wakes to a clap of thunder and a rushing pain.

Things come to him in waves.  The boat.  The guns.  Fulton’s furrowed brow.  Heat roils around him, a feverish anger.  It’s like his heart’s pumping hot oil.

“You’re awake,” says the old woman.  Her chair creaks, and she stands over him, a blur in the faint light.  “Can you talk?”

“Yes,” he says, but only a gasp escapes.  There’s poison in his lungs.  His eyes flick and roll.

“Try to rest,” she says, and presses something next to him.  Just before the black crashes down, he sees Fulton’s eyes.

Fall

The bodies fall like leaves.

Rasp can smell cordite and powder over the sweet, distant blossoms. The orchard is an embarrassment of colours, a sensory wonderland. The gunsmoke is a blot of ink on watercolour. Like him.

Ketchum is leaning against a tree, taking slow, ragged breaths. Rasp stands over him, brushes the hair out of his eyes. “How you feelin’, young’un?” he asks.

Ketchum swallows. “Like I been shot.”

“You gone tell me where Fulton went?”

“North.”

Rasp nods, pulls Ketchum’s jacket a little tighter. “Sweet dreams, kid.”

The silence gets deep. All he can hear is a rustling.

Winter

The gunshot is a flat, dead sound in the cold air, swallowed by the snow and ice. Behind him, the mountains loom silent.

He holsters the gun, pulls his scarf up so that it covers his nose, and makes his way across the lake. The ice here is thick; he can feel its weight, a vastness beneath.

Fulton is crumpled in the middle of the lake, his blood steaming in the white snow. Rasp pulls off his mitten and checks for a pulse. Then he stands, flips the hood of his parka up, and starts his way back to town.