Dip your hands in the lake. Let the blood ease into the water. Cato! Don't trouble too much over the way she yelled his name. Tell yourself she probably deserved that rock to her head, even if she didn't kill the little girl.
Pool the water in your palms. Rue. Splash it against your face. Rue. Forget you ever learned her name. Forget all the tales she told you about the orchards on the east side of Eleven, the acres of peach trees, nectarines and plums, the branches sagging under ripened weight, and how sometimes they'd plant their mouths into the ground and suck the dirt dry of fallen, rotten juices.
Stand. Wipe your face clear of moisture. Smoke out any last thoughts of vengeance. Remorse. Gratitude. No more owed. Remember Nana, and the harvest to be done. Remember the songs passed on from before the dark days, limber chants sinking to the soil, rising like steam over the fields, and all the long hours spent in the toil.
Leave the peace of the bank. Dissolve into the stalks of wheat that lick every inch of skin, a constant, insatiable itch.
But don't scratch. Don't move. Crouch low. Breathe quiet and listen!
Lift your eyes to the coming storm. Don't be fooled by the footfall of thunder, the clouds rolling across the sun, hiding every glimmer.
Grip the sword. Coil the lunge. Search for the hush of the intruder.
He's coming for me.