Page 50 of Dearly Departed

I give myself two minutes and get back up.

The first-aid kit is back in the cabinet where Catherine found it. I sit on the floor like a human iPhone intent on conserving my battery and pull out the kit. Everything inside the metal box is arranged neatly, with no wasted space. I go through the contents quickly, reading labels and tossing them down in no particular order.

I just need⁠—

All I need⁠—

Wedged between a packet of

I just need⁠—

All I need⁠—

Wedged between a pack of iodide tablets and a packet of electrolyte tablets, I find a miracle.

A package of caffeine pills.

Should I be taking caffeine pills in my current state?

No.

But if I have to go after Catherine—and there is no question, I have to go after her, even if it’s only to meet her on her way back—then I need some help. The cabin has not helpfully provided a Starbucks, so this is it.

My body does not want to swallow a couple of caffeine pills with water. I do it anyway. Then I find our second steak knife and glance out the window one more time.

Nothing.

It’s simple enough to unlock the door, and even simpler to open it. Not quite as simple to walk outside into the bright, humid air. I start by bracing my hand on the doorframe and lean out for another scan of the clearing.

Nothing.

No animals. No Raymond Harris. No Catherine.

I’m caught there on the threshold, torn between wanting to make her happy by staying safely locked inside the cabin and making myself happy by unsafely leaving the clearing and going to wherever Catherine is. If the gunshot wasn’t a figment of my imagination, then I need to get to her.

The scream didn’t sound like Catherine.

At least—I don’t think it sounded like Catherine.

That makes up my mind. Maybe she only screams like that when she’s been shot. I am not resting if she’s bleeding out in the mud with Raymond Harris looming over her and cackling.

I pull the door closed behind me and go.

I haven’t gone three steps when a second scream tears through the air. It knocks the wind out of me.

That’s Catherine screaming. That’s her.

I’m not aware of crossing the clearing to the nearest tree trunk. She’s in agony, howling, incoherent. The only word I understand is my name.

She stops.

My body tries to run, but I can’t. It came from—Catherine, Jesus, fuck—it came from my left. From what I can see of the sun in these tall trees, that’s west. A path isn’t immediately obvious, so I tear the camouflage netting down from between the trees. There’s a spot in the mud that’s a little deeper than the rest.

Catherine’s footprints from earlier?

I take a chance and follow them through some gaps in the trees.

From here, the clearing is invisible. I can’t see the waterfall from this path, but I can hear it. The water is no louder than a whisper when something catches my eye.