I tried to sleep. I really did. But closing my eyes brought visions of horror, of Finan in some desolate cabin in the deep woods, tied to a chair, beaten within an inch of his life by heartless cutthroats, and I can only stand outside and listen, my feet frozen, my body paralyzed as he bellows for help I cannot give.
So, I clean. Everything. My washing machine runs nonstop for ten hours as I launder everything in my cabin that could withstand a spin cycle. Humboldt watches me through drowsy eyes. I stop every half hour or so to check his nose, make sure he’s not dried out or bleeding anywhere, give him fresh water, help him up when it’s time to pee. At three in the morning, we’re outside for me to hang wet sheets on the line and for Humboldt to find a spot. He ambles about the dried grass
