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when I was six.
    “Today was actually a lot of fun,” I tell her as we approach the outskirts of town.
    “Yeah,” she agrees, “like being a kid again.”
    We cut down a side street and head for the Clinic. Up ahead I can see Maude and Clara sitting outside the Danner sisters’ house.
    “Emma, take my hand.”
    “What? Why?”
    “Just take it.” I reach out and grab hers before she can argue. Her skin is soft and delicate, unlike my callused hunting hands. I spread my fingers between hers and squeeze them lightly as we carry on. My chest heaves ever so slightly. As we near Maude, I watch how her eyes linger on our entwined hands and I flash her a devious smile as we walk by.

SIX
    THE NEXT WEEK FLIES BY. I spend mornings hunting and afternoons with Emma, passing my knowledge of archery to her in the empty fields behind the livestock pens. We start with the basics: understanding the curve of the bow, the form of the arrow. I teach her how to hold them, when to release, the posture to possess. She squirms impatiently for two days because I refuse to let her shoot until she can nock an arrow with her eyes closed. When she finally takes her first shot, she is terrible, but only because she’s forgotten everything I managed to teach her. Excitement pushed it from her mind and anxiousness took hold of her muscles. She improves over the following days, her arrow flying straighter, her aim more precise.
    As happy as I am to spend so much time with Emma, the words of my mother’s letter continue to haunt me. I turn the house upside down, searching for the slightest of clues. I read Blaine’s diary from front to back, but nothing further is revealed. I try to forget I even discovered the letter, and yet I can’t. I want to know what secret Ma shared with Blaine. I want the truth the way I crave to breathe. It is subconscious and it plagues me.
    On a hot afternoon, when the weather is muggy and heavy and the air presses in on my lungs with vicious intent, I decide it is time for Emma to shoot at her first real target. Sending arrows into open fields is one thing. Hitting a mark is another.
    We make our way to the eastern portion of town, past the crop and livestock fields, to our normal shooting grounds. I set up a basic target and hand Emma some arrows and my childhood bow—I have since outgrown it and it better suits her frame. As I’m slinging my quiver across my back, I hear the thump of an arrow hitting grass. I look over to see Emma’s discouraged face.
    “You’re rushing,” I tell her. The arrow is burrowed in the soft earth in front of the target.
    She frowns. “It seemed so easy when we were just shooting and there was no mark to hit.”
    “Everything’s simpler without constraints. Keep your arm parallel to the ground as you pull it back. Remember your stance, too.” I draw my bowstring back in illustration. She attempts to mimic me and fails impressively. I suppress a laugh.
    “Here, I’ll show you.” I move behind her, hold her bow hand in mine and wrap my other arm around her so that I, too, am grasping the string.
    “Now focus,” I say. “Nothing exists in the world except for the target.” I drop my arms and step away from her. She lets the arrow fly, and this time it strikes true. It barely manages to hang on to the outermost ring, but nonetheless, it is there.
    She jumps in excitement, turning to face me. “Did you see that?”
    “Course I did. I’m standing right here.”
    She nocks another arrow and reaims. I watch her muscles clench as she focuses, admire how her eyes narrow. I wonder how she hasn’t caught me staring at her like this, not even once since we started hanging out. Perhaps archery has been a worthy distraction.
    Emma releases her bowstring. This time she does much better, missing the bull’s-eye by only a single ring.
    With a triumphant yelp she throws her arms around my neck and hugs me. It takes me by surprise. She feels small in my arms, even though she never seems