Then
Blood drips down the black tip of his fishing knife, and the ocean roars, “More!”
The blackwood branches sprawl out like arms, casting dappled shadows across Donny’s dead body. The last of the sunlight flickers on his face through the leaves. His hands are still, one leg bent, dirt smudged along his forearms. Blood gushing from the slit in his throat.
Everything around him is quiet. But it’s too heavy, like the Wicked Woods themselves are waiting to see what he’ll do next.
The ocean rings in his ears, calling again, “More!”
Blackbirds clamber up and down the sweaty branches of a ghost gum as the light thins, a haze of gold catching on the leaves.
“More, more, more!”
He shakes his head as if to clear it and the sea sloshes around at the base of his skull.
He turns to leave when he hears it.
A breath.
Not wind. Not an animal. A human breath, low and close.
He freezes. Eyes flicking to a ghost gum. There, under its shadow, is someone. Watching.
His fishing knife seems to vibrate in his hand.
“More,” roars the ocean.