Colt said that to make up for it he\u2019d take me on a trip. I chose Savannah because I\u2019d always loved the name; I remember sitting in AP U.S. History (\u201cey push,\u201d as my American classmates called it) and learning about Sherman\u2019s pyromaniacal March to the Sea. How he\u2019d spared just one city, the one called Savannah.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In my mind Savannah was golden grasslands, arid heat, and hazy turquoise seas, some hybrid between National Geographic footage and biblical resort town. It was all wrong, of course\u2014the fantasy of an immigrant teen stuck in gray northeastern suburbs. By now, because of work, I\u2019d stayed in many a small-town Marriott in the southeast industrial belt, and my understanding of the South had taken on the dripping gloom of True Detective.<\/em> Still, I\u2019d never made it to Savannah, and held onto it as some kind of metaphor for exceptional salvation. Savannah, too beautiful to burn.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n After landing and renting the car, we\u2019d barely gotten on the highway when Colt said he was hungry. We stopped at a three-lane-wide Chick-Fil-A drive-thru. I saw Colt checking out the teenager handing over orders in the rearview mirror. We ate our Chick-Fil-A sandwiches in the parking lot of a nearby gas station, overlooking a Walmart.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou want the rest of your Polynesian sauce?\u201d Colt asked, mouth full. He\u2019d torn off half his sandwich in one bite.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI do,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He gave me a funny look. The sauce was red and sticky around the corners of his mouth. I counted to three\u2014the clenches of his jaw. Then he was up, slamming the car door. \u201cTaking a piss,\u201d I heard through the glass. I threw my half-full packet of Polynesian sauce into the grease-soaked bag.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I stared out the windshield and counted the number of camouflage outfits. People wishing to be one with and undetected in nature, decked out in pixelated brown-green vests and baseball caps, sticking out like eyesores on the sun-baked concrete of the Walmart parking lot. Even an idling Domino\u2019s pizza truck was sheathed in camo print.<\/p>\n I was once a tree in a middle school play, and all I remember from the performance was the gratitude I felt looking at the back of the glossy blond heads of the children who played lead roles. I wasn\u2019t them. I wasn\u2019t needed; I could slip offstage, and nothing would have changed.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Colt said he played Brick in a high school production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.<\/em> \u201cWrong production. I\u2019d have been a better Stanley Kowalski,\u201d he said. He was right. Colt was tall, dense, always hungry, more Stanley than melancholy Brick. His appetites and moods changed quickly. Not an hour after we\u2019d stopped for food, he was already chugging a plastic pouch of TastyBites from Costco. He clenched the pouch so it was tube-shaped in his fist, and when he squeezed, the brown beany mixtures shot up and the smell of chana masala permeated the car. \u201cIndian gogurt,\u201d he laughed. A dribble of it ran down his knuckles. \u201cFunny, right?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I squinted at the skinny pines that stood like hair from swampy waters by the highway. The swamp was covered with a thin sheen that, in the slanted light, reflected the swirling iridescence of petroleum.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d I said. \u201cFunny.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Colt and I lived in New York. We\u2019d met at a recruiting event, when he was an associate and I was a college senior. He later confessed that he\u2019d pulled strings so I\u2019d be hired onto his team, which specialized in automotives, which meant endless business trips together to the South. We always flew into Atlanta, dabbed sweat off our foreheads as we pulled our suitcases across the rental car lot, checked into separate hotel rooms. We never flirted in front of our colleagues.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Those were the happy times. Now I was no longer at the firm, and travel was no longer business class on domestic airlines, secretly thrilling. I had a Van Cleef and Arpels ring, and Colt had been named VP and was \u201cdealing with a lot of stress.\u201d We spent a lot and drank a lot. After the first time it happened, Colt took me to Turks and Caicos. The second time, to Venice. And this time I said why not Savannah, why not the South, why not just go and see if it does us good. The South was special for us.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We checked into a victorian house a block off Forsyth Park, and Colt said he\u2019d take me to a pre-dinner drink. \u201cYou\u2019re so tense,\u201d he said, his thumb digging into the hollow of the bone behind my ear. He liked to hold my face when we kissed, a forceful grip cradling the length of my jawline and the base of my skull. I once described this to my girlfriends as sexy, and they\u2019d nodded uncertainly. Colt and I are happy, I\u2019d said defensively, and showed them the ring.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The Savannah guesthouse was one Jackie O. once stayed in. I prided myself on being a good trip researcher, on making informed choices. \u201cColt, I read about this bar on the rooftop of the Perry Lane Hotel,\u201d I said. \u201cWe could go there.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhere did you read about it?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cCond\u00e9 Nast Traveler.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cBaby, speak English.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I knew he was being funny again. His smile in the mirror was huge as he watched me tap the concealer along the bridge of my nose, around the edges of my mouth, and underneath my eyes, two taps underneath the right eye and five taps underneath the left eye, where the bruise was still fading, then smooth it over like a game of connect the dots, only it was my face I was outlining into existence.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n <\/p>\n From the rooftop bar, dusk was a splendid gradient of burnt orange to dark red, and I tried to notice the lights the way an old painting teacher told me to: the lit-up white of the church steeple, the neon lights spelling out SAVANNAH on the side of a windowless concrete building, the red blinks of cranes and oil refineries, the interior of a brightly lit Pottery Barn. I could take a picture and post it for our New York friends to see, caption it something arty. The trip had been last-minute; they didn\u2019t know we were here. Impromptu, just us, a getaway from the stress that was getting to him, Colt had whispered the morning after that awful night.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I put my phone away. It had gotten chilly, night falling too suddenly over Savannah. It was as if someone had hit a switch and everything suddenly became banal, the string lights, the Latin jazz music from the rooftop speakers, the Corpse Reviver cocktails in our hands.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We ate at a restaurant with starched tablecloths that specialized in exotic meats. Colt ordered antelope steak. The antelopes were raised on a farm in Texas, we were told, so they wouldn\u2019t be gamey, but more like lean red beef. This didn\u2019t deter Colt\u2014if there was antelope, Colt would get antelope. I imagined this farm, a flat grassland amidst oil rigs, the delicate horned creatures imported and bred for slaughter.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Colt had a habit of chatting up waiters about \u201cthe good<\/em> stuff only locals know,\u201d a line of questioning that, in our consulting days, usually yielded recommendations to roadside BBQ joints or seedy strip clubs. I used to smile politely while he did this, as the men around the table belched and grinned. It was on a business trip in St. Louis that Colt and I first got together. He\u2019d stayed after our colleagues left to close out the round with his corporate Amex. As always, after I\u2019d gotten drunk, I\u2019d started crying. Colt had pulled me into his arms in the deserted lobby bar, whispered into my hair: \u201cI know. I know you had to work harder than anybody else.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I always thought back to that moment. The moment I kissed the man who\u2019d given me my job, the man whose Murray Hill apartment I now lived in, the man who said he\u2019d take care of me, of everything.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The waiter, having delivered Colt\u2019s antelope and my scallops, answered Colt with no hesitation: \u201cGo to Armadillo Island. You\u2019ve gotta take the ferry from Euclid. It\u2019s got all these abandoned mansions and wild horses.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWild horses?\u201d Colt perked up.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cIs it safe?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cOh yes, ma\u2019am,\u201d the waiter said. He was a tall, elderly man with a slight hunch. \u201cRun by the National Park Service as a wildlife refuge. Pack in, pack out.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s go tomorrow,\u201d Colt said, turning to me.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI already booked a tour of the Mercer house for tomorrow,\u201d I said. \u201cWe can go Sunday.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou know yourself. If we wait there\u2019ll be a reason not to go.\u201d Colt pulled out his phone. \u201cI\u2019ll buy the ferry tickets online right now.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cIt really is worth it, sir.\u201d The waiter said. \u201cWould you like another glass of wine?\u201d The old man turned abruptly toward me.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I massaged the patch of skin underneath my left eye. The vein there was throbbing. \u201cWhat about the Mercer house?\u201d I asked Colt.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The waiter averted his gaze. \u201cShe\u2019ll have another.\u201d Colt told him jovially.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I crossed my arms and said nothing. Colt ate his antelope. The new glass of wine sat there, untouched, until Colt snapped the leather bill-holder shut over a pair of crisp twenties. He was always big-hearted with waiters.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Euclid had only a smattering of kitschy seafood caf\u00e9s that wouldn\u2019t open until lunch, and there was nowhere to get coffee, not even a vending machine. My temples were hurting. We\u2019d driven down the Georgia coast in the dark in order to make the morning ferry, and a boy in a park ranger outfit greeted us outside the NPS visitor center. \u201cThe ferry will be leaving from the dock in half an hour.\u201d He addressed Colt but was obviously trying not to stare at me. He really looked so young, like a boy scout. \u201cMake sure not to miss it, there\u2019s only one.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cGot it,\u201d Colt said. \u201cAnd there\u2019s no food on the island?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cNo food for retail, sir.\u201d The boy scout blinked. \u201cIt\u2019s pack-in, pack-out.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019ve got sandwiches,\u201d I said. We\u2019d stopped by a Kroger the previous night for Boar’s Head gouda and deli meat and some Hawaiian rolls. Colt didn\u2019t like sweet bread, but the store was closing and so that\u2019s what I picked up while he waited in the car.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cGood,\u201d the boy scout said, still not looking at my face. \u201cAnd remember, don\u2019t feed the wild horses. Best to keep a distance.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cSure,\u201d Colt said. He squinted at the marshes. There was a thick cloud layer hanging low over the water, giving the morning a gray glare. \u201cWeather gonna clear up?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s coastal weather, sir. Could shift easily.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n There was an old couple on the ferry and no other passengers. The captain was a man with dirty blond strands and a plaid shirt. It wasn\u2019t a pretty ride. The mouth of the river split open into marshes and industrial refineries clotted over the horizon. Colt started talking loudly about the time he took the Provincetown Ferry and it hit and killed a great white shark. I\u2019d heard the story before. I think he wanted to impress the captain, but the captain only stared ahead dead-eyed. The woman in the old couple was studying Colt with pursed lips, but when I made eye contact, she looked down.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I took out my phone and tapped the camera icon so it became a mirror. Then I saw. Colt looked away as I discreetly reapplied the foundation that must\u2019ve rubbed off when I was dozing in the car. He hadn\u2019t made any comments. Of course, he couldn\u2019t bring himself to. Ironically, he\u2019d always been the kind of man who claimed he liked his women \u201cnatural,\u201d not caked with concealer.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We slowed as we approached a dock jutting out of an enormous landmass of low palms and dense oaks. The old couple didn\u2019t get up. I wondered if they were retired, riding the ferry back-and-forth just to wait out their days in this Georgia town.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cFour p.m.\u2019s the last ferry, right?\u201d I asked the captain as Colt and I stepped off the boat.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThe only one,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd we don\u2019t wait.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cBut we\u2019re the only passengers getting off,\u201d I said. The captain was already untying the rope from the post. He shrugged. \u201cAre there more people on the island?\u201d I pressed. \u201cCamping?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cNo overnights allowed,\u201d he said. \u201cEverybody who comes needs to go. One in, one out.\u201d And with that he was back into the boat cabin, and I watched as the ferry pulled away, puttering in the gray water until it disappeared into the marshes. So we really were alone.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Colt had gone beyond the dock to inspect a pile of rusty bicycles. The wind by the shore whipped the trees wildly, and a clump of Spanish moss landed on the ground right next to him, nearly hitting his head. He didn\u2019t notice. \u201cCheck out these bikes!\u201d He was calling.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cAre there trails?\u201d I asked. Colt had stayed up stalking the internet about this island, his face carved upside-down in the cellphone\u2019s glow. I\u2019d done the same, and I knew there were trails, but Colt liked to think he was in control.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cSure,\u201d he said. \u201cHere\u2019s a bike with a decent chain; take it.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I took a step toward the rattling thing he had propped up for me. It had no brake. \u201cYou trust it?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Colt was already astride his own bike, his long legs deploying in slow motion as he pedaled around me in a circle. \u201cI\u2019ll carry you if it breaks down. How about that?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We set forth on the main path, a bumpy trail of dredged sand and shell bits and shark teeth. The island really did feel primordial, the old growth forests joining branches above the path, draped with gray-green moss strands that swayed lightly in the wind. It was winter and the greenery was faded save for the vibrant palmettos, their leaves like blades of green fanned out over the low canopy. I pumped my pedals hard after Colt, who was speeding ahead with childlike glee. \u201cLet\u2019s go find the wild horses!\u201d he shouted.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n For miles and miles we cycled. The nature became monotonous along the straight path. At one point we passed by what looked like an abandoned airfield, where the forest had been razed. But there were no horses. Colt stopped to drink some water and pointed to something in the bushes. \u201cThere\u2019s a trail there,\u201d he said. \u201cA horse trail, probably. Maybe they don\u2019t like to hang out by the main path. They can smell the human presence.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The wild grass in the airfield bristled in the wind. The air smelled of something rotten, and it made me light-headed.\u00a0\u201cOkay,\u201d I said, \u201cbut not far.\u201d We tossed our bicycles onto the razed field and followed the trail into the forest. The ground was covered with bristly pine needles and gnarled roots. Colt walked ahead, pushing thorny stems aside with his fingers and holding them until I passed so they wouldn\u2019t snag at me. After a few minutes, I touched his arm. \u201cLet\u2019s turn around,\u201d I said. \u201cThere are no horses here. I don\u2019t like being this far off-path.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cBut we\u2019re almost by the water. I can smell it.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n It was true\u2014the soil was looser, moister. The water reached inland with tentacular streams; it was all swamp, no beach. We were standing on a clearing next to a big oak tree and there was nowhere farther to go. \u201cLet\u2019s have lunch,\u201d Colt said. I took the cheese and deli meat and bread out of my backpack and lay them on a flat rock. \u201cMake them fast, before the ants get to them,\u201d Colt said. I started slicing a tomato with the knife I\u2019d taken from the rental. Colt was still staring at the spread.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou know I don\u2019t like Hawaiian rolls,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThe ants,\u201d I said. \u201cHurry.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cEvery goddamn time.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I ignored him. I assembled a sandwich and handed it to Colt, then made my own. He was like a big child, or rather a sulking teenager, scrolling on his phone as he chewed. But there was no data; I\u2019d just checked.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cApparently there\u2019s an abandoned church along the path,\u201d I said after a while. \u201cI saw it on the map at the dock. But maybe there won\u2019t be enough time to see it.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWe have to be back for the ferry at 4:00 p.m. Plenty of time.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cIf you say so,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Colt was dragging at the ground with the tip of his boot, unearthing an oyster shell. \u201cIt\u2019s funny,\u201d he said. \u201cThe shells make a big circle around this tree. It\u2019s like someone was here. Shucking and eating oysters. You think it\u2019s one of the island\u2019s secret residents?\u201d He scooted closer to me on the rock, giving me a nudge of the hip. \u201cA ritiual of these horses we can\u2019t see?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I busied myself with putting the food back into ziplock bags. \u201cThey\u2019re probably just a myth made up to lure tourists.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou wanna bet?\u201d His fingers were loosening my scarf, his mouth nuzzling my neck. I sighed and let myself go soft, pliable. He pulled me onto his lap, facing him and the old growth forest behind him. He undid our zippers and pulled down my pants. I closed my eyes. He clenched my hips and the pain was sharper than I expected. He\u2019d spit on his hands but it wasn\u2019t enough, it was not like before, a tangle of organs slick with lust. Sweetbread also means thymus and pancreas, I thought. When I opened my eyes again the Spanish moss was swaying overhead like prayer flags, and I had the acute sense that someone was watching us.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cColt,\u201d I said. \u201cColt, stop.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d His breath was short against my ear.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI heard something.\u201d And indeed there was a louder rustling of leaves, and I jumped off Colt\u2019s lap, pulling my pants up, and he sprung to his feet as well.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cIs that a horse?\u201d he shouted, but we couldn\u2019t see anything. The rustling started up again, and he pointed at a bush.\u00a0\u201cThere!\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n It was a very large rat with an insect\u2019s scaly carapace, digging its snout into the fecund soil.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cArmadillo. It doesn\u2019t care about us,\u201d Colt said with amazement. \u201cIt\u2019s not even aware that we\u2019re these big scary animals.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cOr maybe it\u2019s used to it,\u201d I said, strapping my backpack on. \u201cLet\u2019s get back to the bikes.\u201d I wanted to get far away from the armored rat, for us to keep moving.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI read about them online,\u201d Colt said. \u201cYou know why it\u2019s covered with scales? So if a predator attacks, the armadillo can jump into a thornbush, and the predator can\u2019t follow.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The creature hobbled away, a mutant from the Jurassic era. \u201cLet\u2019s go,\u201d I repeated. This time I ploughed ahead along the horse trail, not caring about thorns. I felt the prickle of tears, but Colt hated it when I cried. I wondered if the old couple would still be on the ferry. It was only when the airfield came back into view that I turned around to see if Colt was following. He was, and he held something misshapen in his hand.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cGuess what,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He shoved the misshapen object closer to my face. It was soiled and scaly, with a wet rat-like snout. A small armadillo, an infant. I shrieked and he dropped the thing, laughing.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat did you do?\u201d I gasped. \u201cDid you kill it?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI did nothing,\u201d he said. \u201cIt was there on the trail. You walked right over it.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhy did you pick it up?\u201d I couldn\u2019t even look at the carcass. \u201cThat thing is dirty. The bacteria. Why did you touch it?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He stretched out his arms and lumbered toward me, grunting, trying to wipe his fingers on my shirt. \u201cLeprosy!\u201d he grimaced. \u201cArmadillos carry leprosy!\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cStop!\u201d I said. I didn\u2019t realize I\u2019d actually started crying until I saw that familiar contrite look on his face.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cCome on. It\u2019s funny.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I tried to steady my breath. \u201cIt\u2019s not funny.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Colt kicked the dead armadillo aside like a deflated soccer ball. \u201cHey,\u201d he said. \u201cWhy did you ask me if I killed it?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThe air on this island\u2014\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s so humid it\u2019s giving me a headache. I know you didn\u2019t kill it. I\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He got back on his bike, not looking at me. \u201cI would never kill a living thing.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI know. I\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m just trying to make you laugh. You never laugh, not anymore.\u201d He was still talking, head-down, to his pedals.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s okay, Colt,\u201d I said. I flung my leg over the bike, and my pelvis felt sore and raw over the seat.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He sighed and plowed forward. \u201cIf you say so,\u201d I heard him sing-song.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The white path stretched ahead, potholed with deep puddles from a recent rain. When we rode across them it was like gravity itself was slowing us down, dragging us into the mud. We would never make it to that abandoned church, I thought. But suddenly Colt came to a hard brake ahead of me.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI saw something,\u201d he said. \u201cIt was definitely tall enough to be a horse.\u201d He got off his bike. \u201cLet\u2019s follow it.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cColt, no. Let\u2019s just stick to the path.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n But he\u2019d already taken a few steps into the bushes. \u201cThere!\u201d he called out with excitement. \u201cI see the steeple! Didn\u2019t you want to see the church? Right over there.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I followed close after him. The trail opened up to a depressed clearing, like the ground had sunk ever so slightly, and in the middle of it was an enormous white building with wide steps and columns and porches and a tall steeple. Colt ran toward it. The white paint looked unchipped and fresh, so fresh it had a minty tint to it. The live oaks surrounding the church were enormous, their branches low and horizontal. There was an old picnic table underneath one of them, not far from the church entrance, and I sat there while Colt circled the building. \u201cDoesn\u2019t look abandoned at all,\u201d he said. He was pressing his face against one of the windows. \u201cCan\u2019t see inside though. The windows are treated with some kind of black tint.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou can\u2019t see them, but they can see you,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He didn\u2019t hear me. He circled toward the front porch. \u201cThere\u2019s an announcement on the door.\u201d He leaned in to read, then shook his head and came back to the picnic table. \u201cFunny. Says there are two services a day. One at three thirty and one at midnight. Maybe the horses come here for midnight mass.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I checked my watch. It was 3:29 p.m.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Right then the church bell chimed. Colt\u2019s eyes opened wide, and at first I thought it was the eeriness of wondering who was striking the bell, but then I saw he was staring at something beyond my head. \u201cDon\u2019t move,\u201d he said. \u201cOr move slowly. There\u2019s one. There\u2019s one right behind you.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I froze. My fingers clutched my backpack. \u201cIt\u2019s so skinny,\u201d Colt said. \u201cIt doesn\u2019t look healthy. Something wrong with its eyes.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Slowly I turned my head. There was a horse, coming around the church, its coat black and patchy, like it had fought and was barely healing. It was small, so emaciated it looked skeletal. Its eyes were a cloudy white.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cGive me your backpack,\u201d Colt said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cColt, no.\u201d My voice was barely above a whisper.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s starving. It wants something.\u201d He wasn\u2019t bothering to be quiet. He ripped the backpack from my hands and turned it upside down, emptying out its contents on the picnic table. His hands were shaking, fumbling around the objects, then he found the Boar\u2019s Head ham and started tearing at the meat. \u201cBet that\u2019s why they killed the armadillo. Starving to death.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cColt, you know it didn\u2019t kill the armadillo.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The horse slowly turned its head toward us, hearing the noise. But with its cloudy eyes it was impossible to tell whether it was looking at us. Colt flung a shred of meat toward it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The horse\u2019s nostrils flared. \u201cYou\u2019re going to make it angry,\u201d I said. \u201cThe ranger told us not to feed them. We\u2019re going to miss the ferry.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re going to miss the ferry!\u201d<\/em> He repeated, nasally. The horse was sniffing at the piece of meat on the ground. The horse was eating the meat. It can\u2019t be, I thought. Its jowls clenched, and its eyes stayed open, staring at us or not at all, impossibly white. When it finished chewing it reared its head in our direction.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cMy hands are all slimy,\u201d Colt said. He picked up another shred of meat, dangling it. A muscle in the horse\u2019s neck spasmed. It took a small step closer.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cPut it down,\u201d I pleaded, my eyes on the horse. Its tongue was lolling. \u201cWe\u2019ve got to go. Something\u2019s wrong with this horse.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Colt let the shredded meat drop to the floor, then turned slowly to me. There was that glint in his eyes that I knew well. \u201cSomething\u2019s wrong? Something\u2019s always wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cColt, don\u2019t,\u201d I begged.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cSomething\u2019s wrong with you for thinking I fucking killed that armadillo.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The horse was advancing toward us now. It wanted more meat. Like a reflex my hands shot up to my face.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThe horse!\u201d I screamed, trying to fight out of Colt\u2019s grip. The knife was on the table, next to the half-tomato shaped like a red heart, and Colt screamed too, and the horse was ghostlike behind him, teeth out. It wanted more meat. There was no one around for miles, and this time it would be death, I thought. For a split second Colt loosened his grip and I leapt free, scrambling for the knife. Then survival was the only white hot force pitting me against the ghostly, snarling horse. I stabbed the blade deep into the horse\u2019s flanks, slicing a long gash along its protruding rib, and it let out a terrible noise, so shrill and anguished that it shook the moss and pierced through the canopy of oaks and reverberated around the entire island, so shrill and anguished it sounded almost human. Its cloudy eyes rolled in its skull, thick red blood oozing from the gash, but my arm came down again, and again, slashing into its coat. It was all bones. Its hind legs buckled as it let out another noise, more of a whimper this time, and I kept slashing because I knew it was me or him, I slashed until its entire flank was a mess of lacerated muscle and blood, until it was just a carcass on the ground, fur and bones and ribs. Its eyes never closed, white as the sky.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When I came to Colt was on the grass, next to the knife, his big robust limbs limp yet twitching like jelly. Tears streaked down his cheeks. He was reaching out for me. \u201cHe wanted more meat,\u201d I said, my voice hoarse and alien. \u201cWe\u2019ve got to go. It\u2019s four.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I sank down next to Colt, the palmetto and oak forest around us bristling and bending in the wind. His shirt was stained crimson by blood, all the blood that ghostly emaciated horse had shed, but when I looked for the horse I couldn\u2019t find it, and instead, through the oaks and the low afternoon fog that had seeped from the sea, I saw the dock. Somehow we had cycled back to the dock. The ferry was at the dock\u2019s end, engine rumbling, and I could see the two huddled white heads of the old couple through the condensation on the cabin window. The captain was on the deck, rope in one hand, ready to unmoor. He checked his watch, squinted, then waved impatiently. One in, one out, he\u2019d said.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cGo,\u201d I told Colt.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Colt\u2019s eyes were wide and unblinking. I remembered how he always used the hand he\u2019d raised and ran his thumb gently along my left cheekbone, where the concealer had long eroded, and I could tell he was always really sorry.<\/p>\n The ferry blew its horn again. I knew it would take him. Dusk was approaching and the old growth forest stirred with shadows. The horse carcass was gone from its pool of blood. One in, one out. One push, one pull. Like the pulsations of arteries that feed into the million broken pieces of an organ that nonetheless keeps pumping. I picked myself up. I started, arduously at first, back up the path, then broke into a trot, eyes set on the church steeple amidst the darkening foliage. I knew the wild horses were waiting.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Colt said that to make up for it he\u2019d take me on a trip.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":6896,"template":"","categories":[9,48,49],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6891","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-fiction","category-literary-features"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n