The river was blocked by debris. On the left it was smooth as a millpond. Not a muscle betrayed its race to the spillway. A petal was gliding to the weir. On the other side a white tumble frothed round rocks and tree roots. As we came near, blood spread in the water like smoke unfurling behind the newly killed. At the milldam their bodies jammed, and the froth ran pink and red. There was no mistaking the smell. I saw Stompie standing nearby, short as the stump of a felled tree. My friend took my hand. "Close your eyes." I trod where she led, finding a footing on sodden flesh. I saw my life through judgmental eyes. Ruth's. Lydia'S. What I have failed to do. What I have done. My body was shaking like a puppet.