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So I’ll weigh it down instead.

I get a half dozen of my jars and fill them with rocks and water, then punch holes in the tarp and tie the jars to the holes with scraps of rope and strips of my T-shirt. That way they hang over the rock, and their weight is enough to keep the tarp in place.

It sounds clever until night comes and brings the wind with it, snatching up the side of the tarp. I’ve punched the holes too close to the edge of the tarp; it tears.

The edge flaps up, then it comes free at the bottom, where I’ve weighed it down against the ground, and seconds later it’s tearing away and falling, and the glass jars tumble and shatter and I’m back to nothing.

It starts to rain.

It drums against the rock. It’s not even raining that hard, but the noise of it makes my skin crawl. I cover my ears, squeeze my eyes shut, try to sleep, but I can’t. The tarp flaps uselessly in the wind, the rain patters against the rock, and I pull Bo closer and whimper into his side.

I need to try something else, but I can’t think of it. All I can think of is how much I need food.

I straighten up. Bo watches me with hungry, trusting, hopeful eyes. He looks lean. I can see his ribs. I know I must look worse. I can feel the bones of my face pressing against my skin. My ribs jut out, my belly caves in.

I’m starving. I’ve used that word so many times, casually, just tossing it off. Let’s get lunch, I’m starving. I want to slap the old me. I want to do worse than that.

We’ve already split the last of the jerky. We’ve got a desperate, eager way of moving now, our chins twitching toward anything that might mean food. I wonder if he’s going to leave me.

I wonder if I should kill him.

The thought makes me want to cry, and crying hurts now. It’s always these wracking sobs that push up through my throat and make my back feel like it’s tearing and sound like horrible, dying sounds. When I cry Bo crawls into my lap and licks my chin, which only makes it worse, and then I shove him away, which only makes him whimper and press against me harder, and then I feel terrible and I cry even more.

And then I think about all the energy I’m wasting, crying.

I’ve lost so much. I’m weaker. It’s colder. I don’t even have any bullets for the gun.

If I had bullets, maybe I could hunt. If I was smart, if I’d grabbed that other box, then... But instead I’m an idiot who didn’t even check what she was taking.

I have nothing. The rifle is nothing. Just a club. A walking stick at best and even then it’s too short to do any good.

Stop.

Enough. Stop.

I focus on breathing steadily. To shut out the sound of the rain, I listen to my breathing instead. To the beat of my heart. Every beat is a promise. I’m not dead yet. I’m not dead yet. I’m not dead yet.

I squeeze my eyes closed until the tears have nowhere to go. I’m not going to give up. I might die, but it’s not going to be because I sat here crying like a useless lump. I can’t let myself think I have nothing. That’s what I thought that first day, and I was wrong.

I dig my fingers into Bo’s fur and count breaths until they slow again.

It doesn’t matter what I don’t have. What matters is what I do have. Okay, the rifle’s worthless without ammunition. Except.

Except there is ammunition.

I stare out into the night, the rain drumming unyieldingly against the rock. My heart’s rhythm is quick and weak in my chest.

There’s more ammunition. Not much more. But some. And I know exactly where it is.

In my father’s pocket.

I remember watching him in the cabin. Remember the bullets clinking against one another as he shook them out of the box (the box he put back in the space under the bench, which I should have remembered that day, should have known not to grab the box that was sitting out). I remember their gleam in the morning light as he glanced at them once, and the rustle they made as he tucked them safely in his coat pocket.

And then—then the mist of blood. Then him falling, being dragged to the hole, then the rain of soil down on his body. Buried. With the crate and my father, buried.

They’re still there. Under the dirt. Out of reach.

Unless I dig.