I right the water bucket. Fill it from the rain barrel. Set it by the coop.
One thing at a time.
Chapter 3
Nugget is going to rupture something.
She's pressed against the slats of the coop, feathers puffed, beak open, screaming with a fury that rivals mine on a bad day.
Still pink.
Still the angriest chicken alive. I unlatch the door and she barrels out, hits the ground running, and attacks a clump of grass.
The coop floor is also pink now. Pink droppings everywhere. Called it.
"I know, it's been a day."
She ignores me. Pecks the grass with murderous intent.
The other two are calmer, stepping out cautiously, eyeing the blood in the dirt. I scatter feed—handful, two handfuls, that's enough for now—and they settle into pecking while Nugget wages war on nothing.
Done. Chickens handled. Blood next.
I kick dirt over the worst of it. The dark stain in front of the cottage door, the smear where Kestria collapsed, the trail I left dragging her inside. It doesn't cover completely but it'll keep the flies from getting worse.
My hands are still crusted with her blood—dried brown over the purple that never washes off.
Should wash them.
The basin inside is already pink. Need fresh water from the stream but that means leaving and I don't want to leave because Kestria's—
The deer.
I make myself look at it. Flies thick on the carcass, buzzing in a black cloud that lifts and resettles when I wave my hand. Half-prepped, meat already going gray in the warmth. Waste. Complete waste. Kestria hauled that thing for miles and now it's—
"Nothing I can do about you." I grab the edge of the worktable and shove. The deer slides off, hits the ground with a wet thud. A fox or a bear will find it tonight. Better than it rotting on my worktable. I'll drag it to the tree line later. Or Kestria will, when she's not busy being stabbed.
The clothes in the grass—Kestria's, shredded when she shifted. I pick them up. They fall apart in my hands, fabric torn along every seam, buttons scattered.
These were on her body this morning.
I toss them by the woodpile. Can use them for rags. Or bandages. The practical ones, not the good ones—the good bandages are inside and I'm going through them too fast and I need to—
Go back inside.
I go back inside.
Kestria hasn't moved. The blanket rises and falls with her breathing—shallow, too fast, but steady. Her face is gray-white against the rough wool. Sweat beading at her temples, her hairline damp.
Fever's climbing.
I press the back of my hand to her forehead. Burning. Hotter than when I wrapped her, which was—twenty minutes ago? Thirty? Time's gone strange.
"That's not great, just so you know."
I pull the blanket down and check the bandages. Red at the edges—seeping through. And the gray. The gray at the wound's edge has crept outward again, past where I pasted it. Spreading into healthy skin in thin veins.
That's not right. That's not—it's always worked. It's always—
