Wilfred and Ruth

We stay off the roads and keep to the woods, cutting the brush with machetes.

Old Wilfred falls and dies on the summit. Now we move by dead reckoning, heading the direction he pointed before he died.

Only Wilfred’s friend Ruth keeps us moving along.

We've had a run of bad luck, she says, but every streak has to end.

Later we realize she planned to lie down in the meadow and refuse to go on. She waves us off, her face cleaved by a beatific smile, her hands full of wildflowers, the joy in her eyes impossible to deny.