Moonlight on Butternut Lake by Mary McNear

placed them, along with lined paper, pencils, and a pencil sharpener, into the top drawer of the desk. After that, she put the few clothes she’d brought into the dresser drawers and arranged a small selection of toiletries on top of the dresser. Last, she took the ring box out from the bottom of her suitcase, and, without opening it, she placed it in the very back of the bottom dresser drawer, where it would be out of her sight.
    As she closed the drawer and stood up, she caught sight of herself in the mirror hanging above the dresser, and, resisting the urge to look away, she studied herself in its reflection. First, she looked at herself head-on, then she tilted her chin, slowly, up and down, and turned her face to the right and then the left. She’d done a good job with her makeup, she decided, and it hadn’t completely worn off on the bus, either. She could still see, of course, the faint shadow above and below her left eye, and the slight swelling of her upper left lip. But she didn’t think either of these was visible to the untrained eye.
    But the makeup couldn’t hide everything, she reminded herself, reaching down and pulling up her blouse’s left sleeve. Just a few inches above her wrist, the bruises started. A whole line of them, running up the inside of her arm to her elbow. They had faded from their original purple to a dull, ugly yellow, butit would be another week, at least, until they completely disappeared. She’d have to be careful to keep them under wraps until then, she decided, letting her sleeve fall back into place.
    She knew she should go and find Lonnie in the kitchen now, but instead she wandered, a little forlornly, over to one of the room’s windows and looked out of it, onto a seemingly endless expanse of forest. The recent rain had left it looking lush and verdant, and the grass and the ferns and the trees together made up a thousand shades of green, from the palest moss green to the deepest pine green, each one layered intricately over the other and stretching away as far as the eye could see. And looking into that distance now, Mila was struck suddenly by how isolated she was here. And that was a good thing, she told herself, because what were the chances of him finding her all the way out here? Then again, if he did find her, late one night, it would be just her and Reid here. She pictured Reid in his wheelchair, pictured his hostility at the coffee shop, his glumness in the van. He wouldn’t help her, she thought. No, she corrected herself, he couldn’t help her. Even if he was inclined to help her—and he clearly was not—his physical condition wouldn’t allow him to. If Brandon ever found her here, she decided, she would be really, and truly, on her own.
    L ater that evening, after Walker and Lonnie had left for the night, but before Mila took Reid his dinner, she sat on the edge of her bed, giving herself a silent pep talk. You can do this, Mila. You know you can. Just remember, it’s not about you. It’s about doing the right thing. It’s about honoring the contract you signed. The one that said you’d be responsible for Reid’s well-being. Not his emotional well-being, of course. Because that would be a tall order. That would require knowledge andskill well beyond her home health aide certification. But for his physical well-being. And that means you need to be responsible for giving Reid his pain medication. Because right now, nobody knows how often he’s taking it. Or how much of it he’s taking. Or in what combinations he’s taking it. And if he were to have an accidental overdose, or, God forbid, a purposeful overdose—because, based on what Walker had told her about him, the man was obviously depressed—then it would be her fault. And you don’t want that on your conscience, do you?
    She did not. But she still could not bring herself to leave her room, walk down the hallway to Reid’s