The woman smells like cigarette smoke. I tuck my face into her neck and sob. The baying is louder now, like weeping.

“I normally keep my rifle in the back of my truck, but I was cleanin’ it last night,” a man says.

Someone rubs my back. It’s not the woman holding me. The moaning is ear-shattering, like a tormented soul.

“Damn shame,” another man says. 

Silence, except for the piteous lowing and my husband’s cursing at our totaled Prius.

Cars stack up on the highway. People wander over. It’s crying. Does it know that it’s dying?

Some men murmur, and a tarp is unfolded. The woman rocks me. The sounds of dragging and deep moaning are like a nightmare. They’re quieter now, further away. The bellowing stops. Everyone sighs.

I’ve never wept so hard. Women crowd around me, all whispering reassurances.

My husband curses. I turn my head away from him. The other deer we hit lies smeared across the asphalt. Its glassy eyes accuse me. The placating women converge on me as my sobs taper into sniffles.

Across the highway, a doe watches us with black eyes. She flees.