at the edge of the cemetery, I step on a tombstone, grab one of the neighboring statue’s six crooked arms, and get a foothold on her perch. Then I grab another arm and swing toward the tall wrought-iron fence. My fingers sweep the top bar and I fall to the ground. On my fourth try, I secure a grip, heave myself over, and tumble into the Estates.
My only protection is the driver’s thin windbreaker. No map, no phone, no light. The trees are thick but leafless. With the nearly full moon and the mess of city light caught in the clouds, I can see just far enough to navigate. When the path splits and splits again, I veer right to stay near the river.
The woods are eerily silent even as a gray herd of deer slink onto the narrow road. The last of them, a buck, holds its nose on the ground search
