Kathryn
62
Getting up that morning had been hard. She briskly walked the perimeter of the hay field behind the barn, pumping her arms, trying to kick the crawling, restless feeling advancing down her spine. Her night had been full of nightmarish memories. And not her own memories. Flora’s memories. She knew they had been memories, and not messages, because they were all dark. Shadowy. Not tinged with the golden light of her usual dreams.
She’d seen the memory before, too—the only one Flora had ever sent. The one of Flora dying. Kathryn remembered the tears and the strange screaming at the end—and her husband, terribly alone, heartbroken, his fear crashing through the underbrush. She imagined him dirty, unwashed, crazy in his grief, digging Flora’s grave and burying her next to all their
