I gave chase. Just ahead, leaves and pine needles broke beneath her footfalls as her laughter simmered through the shadows and dense summer air. But I was growing old and unaccustomed to children’s games and their ridiculous chases. My breath grew labored, louder than her laughter, and soon I lost the sound of her; she was concealed by my own body’s complaints, my joints crying out, my loquacious heartbeat. I came to a halt, bent and breathed. I listened, heard nothing but the usual sounds of the night: crickets, owls, wind. Perhaps she had been one of those apparitions that sometimes manifest between sleep and waking.

    I returned to the meadow, defeated anew.

    And there I found new company. Company I had most definitely not dreamed into being. A large man in a cloak was untying my mule, who stamped and snorted, alarmed by the unfamiliar presence.

    I limped toward him, one knee reluctant to bear my weight. I cried out, hoped he might take pity.

    “Please,” I said.

    A slice of silver spilled out of his cloak and directed itself at me. 

    I ought to have turned and run then. I continued toward him instead. I tripped and collapsed at his feet, where I clutched at his cloak and begged.

    “Please,” I said again, “leave me this sole means of conveyance—I have no coin, no means of returning to my home otherwise—”

    “You talk too much,” said the man. The cold edge of his dagger pressed against the tender span of flesh above my collarbone—which felt taught as a drum’s skin, ready to break. And to make noise. 

    I cried out for help, again and again, and the knife slipped. The cloaked man gripped it more tightly and plunged it into my throat.