In the Night Wood. Dale Bailey

out and turned the photo facedown on the table. She tried to say it kindly: “I just want to be alone.”

      “If I’ve overstepped —”

      “No, Helen, please. I just — I can’t talk about it.”

      “I understand, ma’am,” Mrs. Ramsden said. She nodded, slipped back into the kitchen.

      Erin reached into her pocket for another Xanax, swallowed it with a sip of coffee, waited for it to unspool in her bloodstream. She stared at the blank page. After a time — she couldn’t say how long, the minutes had slipped away on the Xanax tide — she picked up her pencil and began to draw. She didn’t think, simply let her hand follow its own imperative. She might have been drawing in her sleep.

      She supposed she’d gotten just what she wanted. She’d never felt so alone.