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reached the bottom of my list. Was I just a murderer in thrall
            to the Murder God? Just another lateral curiosity, that.
               I felt a bit like a fool, thinking as I had that this diversion
            might  be  a  crack  in  fate,  allowing  me  the  option of
            abandoning the Game. This was just another calling from
            the Shepherd to put something right. Even as I realized all of
            this, I continued, almost mindlessly. There was a degree of
            shame in that, given who I was, what I sought to accomplish.
            It was the first cogent argument I’d been given in support of
            Jack’s “Machine Hypothesis.”
               I realized quickly that the cemetery was more rambling
            than I’d assumed, unfolding deep into thick woods, almost
            entirely joined with the forest, where grave-dust was reborn
            as loam, old bones reached out of the soil as saplings—the
            cycle of a corpse. At some point, across the hidden burying
            grounds, old blood painted the woods, and scars of a battle
            split trees and sundered headstones—a war between Wolves.
            I retraced the carnage as one pursues a scar across flesh, to
            where the blade first enters the skin. It wasn’t long before
            I  came  across  the  loser  of  the  conflict,  remains  scattered,
            scraps of a kill list like yellow fungus curled up beneath the
            overhang of a wilting weed, tips blackened by the kiss of
            fire. Sadness gripped me. I’d left so many Wolves behind
            like this one, all to waste. The aftermath of my sins were
            laid  out  before  me.  I  think  I  might  have  leaned  into  the
            mindlessness of my purpose at that point, to dull the edge of
            what I’d done—would do, one final time.
               The footprints of the winner were slight, lithe—a female
            Wolf. Her tracks were echoes of a dancer recorded in the
            earth, replaying ever-slighter with each passing rain. There
            was a lightness to her tread, free and wonderful. She would
            have been a pleasure to know in life, I was sure. But she was
            not alive. My standing in the contest cemented the fact. But
            it was not a Wolf, I now knew, who stole her from the game.
               The footpath was sporadic, like she had stopped to gather
            as much wonder as possible along her way. But ultimately
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