I didn’t notice it at first. I was too busy balancing on the rocks. The mud squished between my toes, which had never bothered me before then, but now it made me cringe. The stones dug into my soles, no matter how hard I tried to pretend it didn’t hurt. I had attempted to walk in the old river again, but it still had April’s chill.
“There’s a fox,” you said from my side, sneakers laced tightly like when we were eleven.
I still couldn’t see it. I could see bank’s black mud, the peeling sticks stuck on the stones, and the colorful shards of glass embedded into the sand. I could see something orange under the leaves.
It was a fox, stained off-red and on its side. The river slowly brushed against its face, but it never flinched. Its ribs protruded from under its fur, its limbs laid limp, its chest unmoving. I could hear the flies buzzing around, but like most things, I couldn’t see them anymore.
“I think it’s dead,” I whispered. I stumbled forward, being careful to avoid the black sludge and frozen water.
“What do you think happened?” You stayed back on the bank, clung to the cliffside with your question. I was the fearless one who jumped in rivers we found on hikes and climbed the trees in our yards despite creaking branches. At least, I was once.
Now, my feet burn when I climb a hill and I spend more time avoiding glass than carving our name into warehouse walls.
“I don’t know. There’s no blood, maybe it drowned?” I said The fox was so big. I’ve seen cats catch birds and raccoons on the side of the road. I’ve held dying dogs when I worked at the shelter. The dogs had always fit into my arms, yet the fox was so big. That’s the truth of it. None of us fit into the bank.
My feet are too soft to walk the river’s edge, the woods too overgrown for us to carve out paths. We haven’t hung out since last Halloween, and there’s a dead fox at our old spot.
***
You noticed it first.
“There’s a fox.” You pointed along the river bank. I was too distracted by the rocks cutting deep into my soles. A muddy orange splotch hid under the leaves.
“It’s dead.” I stepped forward, and you stayed back. Neither of us took our eyes off the dulled black brushed by the water.
“What do you think happened?” you commented from dry land like you always did, still in your hoodie and Converses.
“I don’t know.” I was the one pretending to still be adventurous even when I couldn’t recall the feeling of the river’s edge anymore.
***
You point out the fox on the riverbank I’d never notice. I’m too busy trying to be eleven again. Like this, the fox is dead.
***
We’re the dead fox you saw.
