Traversing the meadow was a kind of hell. Even with dark glasses, the light hurt Blanca's eyes, keeping them watering so that her eyesight was constantly clouded. Incapable of seeing the jagged dirt clearly, she fell several times. The sun beat at her, relentless in its assault. In the shadow of the grove, the trees provided some relief. But by the time she reached her cabin she hadn't a square inch of skin that wasn't bright red or blistering.
Once at home she investigated her swollen neck and throat, the horrendous bruises, and ragged wounds. She looked grotesque, a grotesque lobster, beaten and battered. Blanca smeared aloe vera over her skin, then, working quickly, gathered tools, instruments, and ropes, arranging them in her truck. The windows in the camper were already blackened, but she would need to cover him to get him into the truck. She returned for a blanket.
