“I saw it again,” he says, hardly through the door, the month of March close behind–cold, wet, and with no sign of spring. He shuts the door; a little bluster is cleaved behind him. “The same one. I’m certain it’s the same one. It has a collar. Do you think they all have collars?”
	“Martin,” she says. 
	“Comes up to my knee, probably taller. Practically a wolf. Beautiful coat. Healthy coat.”
	“Martin,” she says, “Martin.”
	“What?”
	She is at the sink. Water runs from the faucet. As he walks up behind her, he sees the porcelain is ruby-splattered. Her hand is under the running faucet. Her blood runs with it.
	“What happened? Jesus, Edie, what happened?”
	“Martin,” she says, “I forgot the knife. I forgot it.”
	The cut is wide across her palm. A butcher’s kiss. The guilty knife lies at the bottom of the sink. A chef’s knife. There is nothing on the counter it could have been cutting.
	“You’ll need stitches,” he says. He leans into her, over her, both of his hands holding her maimed one. She’s so small. She’s become so small. “Jesus, Edie.”
	“Did you see it?”
	“Edie.” He presses the wound together, tries to seal what has divided. “We need butterflies,” he says. “We need butterfly bandages.” There’s a first aid kit underneath the sink. He has only to let go of her hand and reach down to take it. It would be only a moment. But if he moves, she might fall. He doesn’t know how long she’s been standing there, her open hand underneath running water, but whatever strength she had slackened the moment he pressed his weight from behind her. His body and the lip of the sink; they are the only things keeping her standing. If he moves for the bandages she’ll fall. He’s not sure he can catch her anymore. He certainly can’t pull her up. Five years ago, maybe two. But now? 
If she fell, he would have to wait for strangers to come and lift his wife from the floor.
	“Edie.”
	“Did you see the coyote?”
	“Yes. Yes.”
	“Did it follow you again?”
	It did. It does, when he walks in Graceland Cemetery, mornings and evenings, weather permitting. It’s a nice walk. There are plenty of others, walkers and joggers, too, on the curving asphalt lanes. Tombstones, as it turns out, make for pleasant scenery. There is birdsong. And there are coyotes. Lou Coiller, who lives two floors above them, says they’re completely wild. “They have plenty to eat there. Rats, voles. Bunny rabbits.” Martin walks around six in the morning, when the wind obliges. He sees the coyotes all the time. He sees one coyote. He can recognize it by the patches of color on its coat, by its white face and black ears. It follows Martin, not as a predator might, but lopes parallel to him, weaving through the tombstones as Martin walks on the asphalt lanes. It comes as if called, though Martin has never made a sound towards it, either of discouragement or appreciation. It has a collar on it. This morning, it came close enough that Martin could see the stitching of it. They must be tracking it. He doesn’t know who they are, but if the coyotes are collared there must be a them doing it. 
	“Martin.”
	His hand is over hers. He’s squeezing the wound shut. But it can’t last. She needs stitches. He’ll have to let go soon. He’ll have to call the ambulance. They’ll come. They’ll come and decide what to do with his wife.

William Hawkins has been published in Granta, ZZYZYVA and TriQuarterly, among others. Originally from Louisiana, he currently lives in Los Angeles where he is at work on a novel. Read more of his writing at oncetherewas.substack.com.