The stone was green. It may have been moss that made it so. He didn’t know; he picked it up from the side of the road and threw it.

Ahead of him the girl fell when it hit her. She went down.

She lay with her eyes closed, mud on her cheek and in her hair, didn’t move when he nudged her foot with his boot. He pushed her onto her side with his black boot. The back of her head now showed. The red blood.

He picked up her pale hand, said, “Get up. Get up now.”

A wren alit on a branch overhead and sang. It swept its glinting gaze back and forth and sang, its breast pumping.

The girl did not stir. Dark clouds moved in; far away a dog barked. The wind lifted her plaid skirt.

She must be cold on the wet ground.

The red blood was bright, stayed bright in his mind’s eye as he ran for home, though it did fade for him as the years passed.

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