Taken (Erin Bowman)

swimmer and catches up quickly. With a strong kick her hands are on my shoulders and pushing me beneath the surface. I’m too busy admiring how her undershirt clings to her body to prepare myself for the dunk. I resurface, sputtering and coughing.
    “Who’s the wimp now?” she asks. Her hair is wet and stringy, pieces of it clinging to her neck. It looks dark in the water, nearly as black as mine. I lunge at her, but she’s too quick. She darts away, slipping underwater and resurfacing behind me, where, to my embarrassment, she dunks me again. We continue like this for a while, me always trying to catch her and she easily avoiding my attacks. When I finally surrender, she’s dunked me four times and eluded me seven.
    “Fine, you win,” I admit as we climb out of the lake. “But I would slaughter you in an archery match.” I pull on my pants and use my shirt to dry my hair.
    “You hunt daily, Gray. That’s hardly fair.” She’s turned away from me, pulling her dress on. She shakes out her wet hair and braids it back.
    “It doesn’t have to be fair to be true.”
    “Fine. Teach me,” she retorts.
    “Really?”
    “Yes, teach me how to shoot and then we’ll have a match.” She spins to face me. There are wet patches where her dress meets the curved parts of her body.
    “Okay,” I agree. “Start tomorrow?”
    “Tomorrow.”
    We walk home in silence. I try to figure out what it all means, Emma being so nice, so playful. The last time the two of us got along so well was when I was six.
    “Today was actually a lot of fun,” I tell her as we approach the outskirts of town.
    “Yeah,” she agrees, “like being a kid again.”
    We cut down a side street and head for the Clinic. Up ahead I can see Maude and Clara sitting outside the Danner sisters’ house.
    “Emma, take my hand.”
    “What? Why?”
    “Just take it.” I reach out and grab hers before she can argue. Her skin is soft and delicate, unlike my callused hunting hands. I spread my fingers between hers and squeeze them lightly as we carry on. My chest heaves ever so slightly. As we near Maude, I watch how her eyes linger on our entwined hands and I flash her a devious smile as we walk by.

SIX
    THE NEXT WEEK FLIES BY. I spend mornings hunting and afternoons with Emma, passing my knowledge of archery to her in the empty fields behind the livestock pens. We start with the basics: understanding the curve of the bow, the form of the arrow. I teach her how to hold them, when to release, the posture to possess. She squirms impatiently for two days because I refuse to let her shoot until she can nock an arrow with her eyes closed. When she finally takes her first shot, she is terrible, but only because she’s forgotten everything I managed to teach her. Excitement pushed it from her mind and anxiousness took hold of her muscles. She improves over the following days, her arrow flying straighter, her aim more precise.
    As happy as I am to spend so much time with Emma, the words of my mother’s letter continue to haunt me. I turn the house upside down, searching for the slightest of clues. I read Blaine’s diary from front to back, but nothing further is revealed. I try to forget I even discovered the letter, and yet I can’t. I want to know what secret Ma shared with Blaine. I want the truth the way I crave to breathe. It is subconscious and it plagues me.
    On a hot afternoon, when the weather is muggy and heavy and the air presses in on my lungs with vicious intent, I decide it is time for Emma to shoot at her first real target. Sending arrows into open fields is one thing. Hitting a mark is another.
    We make our way to the eastern portion of town, past the crop and livestock fields, to our normal shooting grounds. I set up a basic target and hand Emma some arrows and my childhood bow—I have since outgrown it and it better suits her frame. As I’m slinging my quiver across my back, I hear the thump of an arrow hitting grass. I look over to see Emma’s discouraged face.
    “You’re rushing,” I tell her. The arrow is burrowed in the soft earth in front of the target.
    She frowns. “It seemed so easy when we were just shooting and there was no mark to hit.”
    “Everything’s simpler without constraints. Keep your arm parallel to the ground as you pull it back. Remember your stance, too.” I draw my bowstring back in illustration. She attempts to mimic me and fails impressively. I suppress a laugh.
    “Here, I’ll show you.” I