Oren floated above a sea of pain. Sometimes the pain would lap like water but, quick as a fish, he’d dart away. Nor was he tempted to step on shore, for the sand was sticky with blood. Memories of long ago were coming to him, and he wanted to be alone. He wanted to think.

Once he shot a wapiti, severing the spine. Oren had known since the time he was knee-high to shoot low, aiming for the heart and lungs, but the animal had moved, the wind had risen, and the arrow had gone too high.

The bull had fallen flat, legs splayed in all directions, screaming of pain and rage that bordered on language. When the shrieking stopped — abruptly on a high note– the moans had begun. A plea had entered the pain; the wapiti was begging for its life to end.

Oren hadn’t hesitated. He’d pulled the short knife from his boot and slit the throat. Blood poured, forming a puddle under the head. Froths of salvia clung to the corners of the wapiti’s mouth as a thin, watery substance ran from its nose. Oren bowed his head in shame against the still warm neck, sharing its pain and grief.

He didn’t remember how long he’d remained in that position, crouched over a dead elk, but the buzzards had mobilized him. They’d been quick to circle, calling with their key-yah sounds.

Oren had never made a shot again until the wind was perfectly still. He’d never wanted to hear those sounds again, but he was hearing them now.

They were coming from him, pulling him out of unconsciousness, past the sharp hitch of his ribs, the persistent throbbing from the lump on his head. Red Robes had stomped his left hand. They hadn’t touched his right hand, the hand with the mark, which they avoided out of fear.