It was a wet spring. The ground didn’t get a chance to dry out between rainfalls. Beryl tramped through the bushes in St. Vital Park, away from the well-trodden paths. She slogged through long grass and thistles, poison ivy and mushrooms. Mushrooms in June! That’s how wet it was. Her sneakers were soaked through. Something long, solid and rounded, like a thin baseball bat, caught her hard in the arch of her foot. She lost her balance and toppled to a sitting position in the drenched forest. With one hand sunk in the boggy soil she boosted herself onto a fallen log where it wasn’t quite so wet. Beryl removed her shoe and massaged the sore area. I should have stuck to the regular trail, she thought. I should be home drinking coffee. “What the hell was that?” she muttered. Something stunk; she smelled her hand. And then her gaze drifted to the ground. Her chest clenched. It squeezed and let go, squeezed again. A female form lay next to Beryl in the woods; she had touched it. It was the shin bone that had caused her to tumble to the ground. Bone on bone. No wonder it hurt so much. Her breath didn’t return for so long she thought she would die. She forced it. Manually—like turning off the toaster before it popped up the toast on its own—it could be done. With her eyes she followed the long length of the girl—she was tall and very slender. Beryl hoped she was dead. Dealing with a live thing so close to death seemed beyond what she was capable of doing. She needn’t have worried. This person was gone. Beryl knew this when she forced her gaze to rest upon the face. She had no experience with long-dead bodies, but no experience was necessary. The dead girl’s mouth was open wide. Mushrooms were growing there. Someone must have filled her mouth with dirt. How else could this be? Beryl closed her eyes for a long minute to give the face a chance to disappear. It didn’t. A colony of mushrooms was using the head of a girl as a planter. It rained softly at first, then hard, like a punishment. She held out her hand and the rain washed it clean. Pain in her foot. Pain from the shin bone of a dead girl. She could still feel the hard roundness pressing into her. She wished she hadn’t seen the face. The mushroom face. But she had; it was hers to keep. Like a birthmark, like a tattoo. Let me go back, she prayed, so I don’t have to carry this forever.