A party roared from the depths of the house, a shanty. The neighbors danced about as their father teased the youngest daughter at the dining room table. Older now, their passion had fallen away, replaced by anger and resentment. He had stayed with her and adored her more than he could express but she was trapped in the wilderness, with no chance of escape. She longed to explore the world yet she knew she could never leave. Joining in the revelry, she flirted with the boys and felt his cold stare upon her. Swooning from attention and fatigue, she made her way to her room, shut the door, sought solace in sleep.
Later, she was awakened by a hand on hers. They said a million things but never spoke a word. A melding of sickly sweet, hard-edged precision. He was gone, as quickly as he had entered. And as the midnight warmth took her to dream, she wondered, who he might have been.
The morning sun tipped her lids, as she hoped she might find a clue, on a face, to reveal her night visitor. She found them, scattered about in heaps of drunken slumber. Deeply, her sister slept in the arms of their father. She smiled softly, as the glint caught her eye. Its sound carried her back, while the silver shot penetrated his hat and the dust of his day drifted quietly off its brim.