We sat there in the woods for a while after. A bit like fallen branches cluttering the ground. She sat in a small ball. Arms hugging her legs and face nestled between her knees. It was some time before she stirred.
“Why are you chasing them?” she asked.
“They took one of my best friends from me.”
“Can you get your friend back?”
It was disheartening to think of my friend the gazebo. He had been so kind, so friendly, so skillful in his brick ejecting abilities.
She looked at the ground. Eyes glanced up for a moment, but quickly back down to the dirt. The embrace of her legs became somewhat tighter.
There is a time and place to wallow in grief. The wood, the dirt, the sticks, the rain – the place was proper. But the appropriate time, as it then occurred to me, was after I had made my efforts against the Issacary. Sitting here in the woods, watching dry dirt become wet dirt become brown water did no good for anyone. Especially my friend. It was not going to help a distraught and mentally molested woman regain her composure and dignity either.
“You want to get back at them with me?” I found myself asking.