So straight. That was Annie…. Anne. She preferred to be called Anne now. Annie was a little girl’s name. She’d left the name behind when she left his clearing. She was not a little girl. Anne was an arrow. He shook out his hands, as if to rid himself of the sensation of having touched her. Of having been touched. His arm still ached like he’d stuck the whole thing in icy spring runoff. As Anne walked, the silly cherries on her bonnet bobbed, a strange bit of frivolity that only highlighted the lurch of her gait. He wished he could take her arm the whole time they walked—it would help. But he had no chivalry left, and he felt no pity for her, and hated the idea that she would think he did. So he was paralyzed into not touching her. And that was easier. It was easier to live as if he were half dead. “Are you coming?” Anne asked, looking over her shoulder at him.
