Usually the scream, her own, would wake him and sometimes herself. Her panic would set in with a feeling that she was slamming back into her body and complete knowledge that she had lost something so important and now it was gone, dead. Tonight there was no scream. She must have slipped out of the house and been outside for a long time, her feet ached and her fingers tingled in the late November air. There was enough of a moon she could make out her surroundings. Although in the woods, she could see beyond the trees through the half mile field to her house. A candle flickered in the window, he would be putting on his coat and boots, coming to her rescue once again. She always respected his traditional boundaries and ordinary ways. He respected that her boundaries would never be mapped. She decided to wait for him, resting against the wet bark of a rotting elm tree. She was just another wounded animal to track in the woods. She fell asleep while waiting for him and waking to him gently touching her hair. Wrapping her in an old quilt he led her back to the house. She expected that this was what death must feel like. She would wake up someday and this would be what was now lost and forgotten, like it was never here at all. Hopefully, someone would be waiting in the woods for her.