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        It had been years since they had seen one another, having gone their separate ways shortly after they had, more or less by accident, committed the crime and sunk the body in the lake, and then agreed never to speak of it again. Ronel had solemnly shaken Etgar’s hand, his face expressionless, and then had walked away and simply vanished. Etgar on the other hand had simply gone back to the town, continuing his life as if nothing had happened.
        Only something had happened. A part of him was always thinking about it. Every night he had dreams. In them he could hear her screeching again and could even feel the way her fingernails had scratched his arms and chest bloody. In life it had been Ronel who had, in desperation, found the rock and put it to use, but in the dream it was always him. And even when awake there was always a part of him thinking about it, always a part of him still lost in what had happened and still wondering why.
        After days of nightmares, days of having her return in his dreams, her body bloated and sickly from the lake, Etgar took a shovel and climbed up into the mountains and very carefully and meticulously dug a grave at the place he and Ronel had killed the girl. Then he went to the lake and waded in, searching for where they had sunk the body.
        But he couldn’t find it. Perhaps it had sunk deeper and was now buried in the mud of the lake’s bottom. Perhaps he had misremembered the spot. Or perhaps, he couldn’t help but think, Ronel, for a reason known only to himself, had moved the body.
        He spent his spare moments at the lake, feeling his way through the mud, looking for her body, stopping only as winter began to set in. All the while he thought of Ronel. He perfected the grave, squaring its edges until the ground was too cold and hard to work, filling the bottom with a soft bed of dead leaves so it would be ready when he found her.
        Then the first snow came, and kept coming thickly down.

~

        That night, he had a different dream.
         In the dream, he was ten years older. Ronel had again appeared out of nowhere, knocking on his door. He started to invite him in and then hesitated. Wait, he heard himself say, I want to show you something.
         He left Ronel on the porch and then went into the kitchen, filling his pockets with knives.
         “What do you want to show me?” Ronel asked.
         He just smiled. “You’ll see,” he said.
         A brisk walk, a slow easy climb, then a steeper ascent. In the end, they were there, Etgar staring down into the empty grave, Ronel just a little behind. Then Etgar eased two knives out of his pockets and turned, ready to be done with Ronel once and for all.
         Only Ronel, he was somehow relieved to see when he turned, was holding a gun and was pointing it at him.
         “Well now,” Ronel said affably enough. “What do you suppose could possibly happen next?”

~

         Ten years is a long time, he thought, as he woke up. And then he immediately set about thinking about what he might do to make the time pass more quickly.