Her scared eyes were ajar. Her bulging brown tapetum were like angry oceans, ready to swallow pupils that had observed too much. She looked at me. I watched as she breathed one last breath, the air from her snout moving the tiny green blades of trampled grass near her face ever-so-slightly as she exhaled. One last breath — then nothing. I rested my hand on her chest. Checked for a flattened pulse. Made sure she was gone. Drug her down the mountain. Listened as her human-sized corpse smacked against the truck bed. Studied the way the sharp metal knife blade carved thin lines into her body. Felt her thin, opaque skin pull free from thick muscle. Watched my caramel flesh turn crimson as her blood smeared on my hands. I’d bury her bones, her once life-filled organs, in a shallow grave behind my house. It was a last-ditch effort at showing dignity. An attempt at keeping the bobcats and loose hounds away.