Just do it, so the T-shirts say. Just pick up the gun, pull the trigger—but maybe aim first, aim at the upper sternum and then pull the trigger, congratulating yourself that at last, in your long, passive life, you have shot somebody dead. So she did, and thus she became a murderer. She slipped through the night after that and disappeared into the willows to wash off any blood that spattered onto her clothing. The willows were thickly interlaced, with an overpowering smell, acrid and watery. The stream flowed through and among them. She washed her hands and face, even her elbows, and pushed her way through the restraining arms of willows wherever she could find a gap. The ditches were deep. Sometimes she put a foot down in one and fell, grabbing at willows to drag herself back up again so she could keep running. How long could she run, and where? Pretty soon the willows ended, by the bank of the creek that was swift, dark, bitter cold and deep. Can’t run there. Run down along the shore, scraping under a barbwire fence, not running but walking or stumbling, because there seemed no rhyme or reason for the contour of the ground in the dark. There was faint moonlight, from a half moon; she was afraid she would be seen in it, even though she didn’t know if there was anyone to see her. Had there been another besides the one she shot? He couldn’t have been alone; she was sure she had heard them talking—short grunts of laughter, murmurs of discovery. Where was the other? Was it possible he was out looking for her? He’d be scrambling, that’s for sure, not knowing the territory, confused and annoyed by the scratching of resistant willow twigs that sprang back and slapped the flesh. Her shoes were wet and heavy. Every step sucked mud. The sound of it traveled through the quiet night until she couldn’t imagine she wouldn’t be caught. If he caught her, she was dead. Probably worse than dead. It didn’t pay to think a lot about how much worse than dead a thing could be. She needed all her thought to be on escape. In whispers, she told herself how she was coming along, kept a running commentary on what a good job she was doing, and gave herself warnings about dangerous footing or sudden patches of open space.