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you run off, you’ll regret it,” I inform her coldly. It should scare her. I don’t think it does.
    “Sadly, I can’t right now,” she sighs morosely, hissing as she takes her shoes off. Her feet do look nasty. They’re covered in blood and red swollen blisters. I can’t stop myself from bending down on the ground and helping to take her shoes off. Then I shift her and ease her closer to the water, letting her feet fall into the cool water. “Am I going to get some kind of infection and lose my toes because I’m soaking them in swamp water?” she asks, but her eyes are closed, and she seems relaxed. I shake my head because she is a strange combination of a woman. I don’t think I’ve encountered anyone like her before.
    “It’s a spring, probably more purified than the water that runs out of your faucet at home,” I tell her, getting up to go in search of the real reason I decided to stop here.
    “I wouldn’t drink water that had my feet in it,” she calls out from behind me.
    “You will if you’re thirsty. This might be the last water we have for a long time.”
    “Couldn’t you have told me that before you put my feet in it? Besides, on TV, they always have to prepare the water. Shouldn’t we boil it or something?”
    “You got matches?” I question sarcastically.
    “I’m suddenly not thirsty.”
    I leave with a smile on my face. I don’t stay away long. I don’t trust her to run off. Even if part of me is wishing she would. The constant war inside of me, over this woman, is driving me batty. Would it all change if I let myself have her, just once? I come back to the spring with some fruit I collected. I give her one handful and keep the other for myself.
    “What are these?”
    “Sea grapes.”
    “Sea grapes?” She asks like it’s something from Mars. She holds one up to her face and turns it around inspecting it. She brings it up to her nose and sniffs. “Should we wash it off or something?”
    “Sure, you have the water your feet are in.”
    “I could hate you,” she grumbles, and it’s cute and all, but she should hate me. I kidnapped her. I don’t understand the dynamic we have going on between us. I need to get her out of my head. I need to make sure there is a wall between us.
    “I’m sure you say that to all the men who kidnap you,” I say mainly to remind her of our situation. I think it does because, for a second, she gets a strange look on her face. Then she delicately bites into the grape. Her face is full of concentration, and she must decide she likes it because she plops what remains of the small morsel in her mouth and goes for the next one.
    “I’ve read your file,” she begins, and I ignore her. “Why don’t you ever tell the parole board you’re sorry for your crime?”
    Her question angers me. How many people have asked me that? I have fucking lost count. “I’m not sorry, my only regret is that I only got to kill him once.”
    “Saying things like that is why you’re on your fourth parole hearing, can’t you even feign remorse?”
    “Why? I’m glad the son of a bitch isn’t breathing. I’m thrilled the last face he saw was mine. No point in lying about it.”
    “Don’t you want to be free? To have a life again, Max?”
    I like the way she says my name. It makes me react, and I’m not just talking my dick, though that is definitely alert. Hearing her say my name causes something in my chest to hurt. Maybe it’s just the sea grapes.
    “There’s nothing for me out here,” I tell her, dusting off my hands. I go and sit beside her and rip off one of the sleeves on my jumpsuit. Once I get that done, I do the other and carefully dry her foot off. Then I take part of one of the torn sleeves and wrap it around her foot, before putting it back in her shoe. I repeat my actions with the other foot.
    “There could be,” she says while I’m tending to her, and I ignore those words. She’s wrong. I did what I did, and there’s no going