The Rope: An Anna Pigeon Novel Read Online Free

shop. She remembered opening it, taking out the water bottle the park gave her, uncapping and drinking.
    God, but that was a great memory.
    My lieu days, Anna thought as the ghost water slid down the throat of her past self.
    “It’s Tuesday, July 11, 1995, and Bill is still president,” she said aloud to her sister.
    Molly did not reply. Maybe it was no longer July 11. How long had she been unconscious? Hours? A day? Days? Not days. At orientation they were told nobody could live in the desert for days—plural—without water.
    Thirsty, she opened her eyes. No cheery sun in Ray-Bans greeted her. The pack, along with her clothes, had not journeyed with her into this place. No bottle filled with water that, like the rain that often didn’t reach the ground in the desert, never seemed to reach her thirst but evaporated in her esophagus.
    Did desert peoples cry? she wondered. Or had dehydration reached their Anasazi tear ducts? She no longer cried, and she missed it. Tears were warm and kept her company. When tears were gone, what remained was emptiness the size of a basketball, yet paradoxically as heavy and solid as a chunk of concrete. Inflating her lungs around it was a chore. Swallowing food past it was more work than it was worth. Carrying it from place to place exhausted her.
    Out West, where there were wide-open spaces, big skies, where deer and antelope did their thing, she thought breathing might be easier. Out West there was supposed to be more air in the air.
    Out West.
    Out here.
    Outdoors.
    Not long ago “outdoors” meant the streets and avenues of Manhattan. “Wilderness” was Central Park after sunset. Robert Rowell, a costume designer she’d been fond of, summed it up nicely. Slamming the window of his ninth-floor apartment, he’d announced, “I love the outdoors! Let’s leave it out.”
    Then Zach left and Anna wanted out: of the city, her skin, her life. Three drinks with a stage manager working at Wolf Trap National Park for the Performing Arts and she’d applied for the first seasonal park job she found.
    She’d gotten it.
    There was nothing left for her to do but to practice breathing all the air in the wide-open spaces.
    Except she was in a hole smaller than the average New York apartment. “Jesus fucking Christ,” she muttered and shifted her weight on the sand. A harsh grate of agony shot out from her shoulder to ricochet around her skull.
    “Sorry I blasphemed,” she managed. Given her situation it was best to stay on the right side of all gods whether they existed or not.
    When the worst passed she realized she could keep her eyes open. Pain seemed to be clearing her mind, not enough to produce anything like total recall, but enough that she could open her eyes without the stone tornado spinning her into a vomiting session.
    Having her eyes open was not reassuring. From the unsightly alien lump on her shoulder, she could see her arm hanging like dead meat. The tips of her fingers were white, and her hand was numb. The skin was pale and old-looking with papery fine wrinkles. Pain, spread over every square inch, was the only sign of life in the appendage.
    In the movies the hero would grasp the hand, give the arm a yank, and, presto, good as new. Tentatively, with the hand of her living arm, she tugged on the cool white fingers. Pain threatened to make her throw up again. She quit, laid her head back against the warm rock. Bone was squashing a blood vessel. That was why her arm and hand were dying. How long before the tissue was so damaged there was no reclaiming it? Gangrene, blood poisoning, necrosis, a litany of ailments of which she was all but ignorant. The classics had been wasting her time. If she’d stage-managed for General Hospital or M*A*S*H she’d know these things.
    No sense worrying about the arm. Thirst would probably kill her first.
    Breathe in two three.
    Hold two three.

FOUR
    Jenny, Jenny Gorman, called the Fecal Queen because she cleaned human waste from the