The dirt caking her hands dissolved in the lukewarm water. Muddy rivulets swirled down her arms, dripping from her elbows to her hips and legs, they followed the tracks bordered by her tattoos. To the outside world, the Silverheel sisters' tattoos only existed on their arms, and Winona was often thankful for the invention of clothes – they hid the marks covering the rest of her body. Those were a tracery of thicker, blacker lines netting her sides, sloping along the curves of her breasts and her buttocks, all the way down to the tops of her calves where they spindled into points. The designs were only separated by a blank space along her spine and tailbone.

While Winona lathered herself with the citrus-scented bodywash, her palms feeling the ridges of the inked skin, she once again found herself puzzled by why she didn't have any memory of getting these tattoos. The scarification was so prominent, so ropy, it was a surprise she didn't remember the pain of the procedure. And neither did Meda, strangely enough.

Comparing those to the tattoos that she had gotten after she'd started working at the studio in Andover, she also couldn't help but ponder on how deep they had to cut into her epithelial to get scars that thick. The dark forests around her ankles, the snake that twisted up from her groin and rested its scaly head in the valley of her breasts, the wild bouquet of skulls and flowers on her left thigh, and the raven on her right – they had all set into her skin comfortably, smoothly. They were rather unscarred...

Regardless, tonight, her and her sister's warrior-markings didn't stay for long, since her thoughts were quick to drift onto things that weighed more heavily on her mind. Winona watched the browned water whirlpool around the drain. She watched but she didn't see, preoccupied with what she had done and what she still had to do. Turning her attention back to her hands, she scrubbed at them further. She had to get the mud out from underneath her nails.

Winona's decision to make use of the spoils from their impulsive nicking and picking had been finalized. Instead of throwing them into boxes and then burying the boxes all over Harold Parker Forest, away from their eyes and their minds, she was going to thrift and pawn them. She had been thinking over this plan for the past month; today, she'd acted on it. First, she used the computer at work to take down a list of all the pawn shops in Andover, Salem, and other nearby towns. Then, after her shift, she'd hurried home, grabbed a shovel from their garden shed, and gone deep into Harold Parker Forest – purpose on her mind, purpose in her strides.

A couple hours later, Winona had returned from the woods, her arms laden with three garbage bags full of things that still had some commercial value. She'd snuck in from the kitchen door in the back, and quietly locked herself in her room. After safely stashing the bags inside her boxbed, she'd showered to clean herself of all evidence of being in the forest.

Now, as she dried herself, she tried to adjudge the pros and cons of creating a savings bank account where she could deposit the earnings from this endeavor. Winona had to pick a bank which offered a good interest rate and was a few towns away. Those savings would help with paying for Meda's additional college expenses, of things outside her tuition scholarship. It may be unethical, it may be immoral, and it may devastate their father if he ever came to know – but it was the smart thing to do. And it had to be done, because a loan was out of the question – their little family didn't have much to write down as collateral.

Meda deserved to be able to live her dreams and Winona wasn't about to let something like financial instability get in the way of that. If anyone deserved a chance to shine against all odds, it was Meda, and Winona was willing to beat a few unfair odds out of the equation. It was the least she could do.

Winona's financial rumination only ceased during dinnertime. Dinner was for fully investing in the family, since it was the one meal they ever enjoyed together.

Winona always thought it funny how some days, time moved like thick amber, and how other days, it just slipped away like dry sand from one's fingers. The week went by like sand, swift and constant and unstoppable – overlapping moments of practicing tracking in the woods, going to work, crafting their crafts, taking care of their hair and their harvest. Soon came the day the bank finally sent their word of approval, calling Winona in to sign the papers and claim her own, private savings account.

She had an appointment scheduled today, and was just getting ready for it when Meda knocked on her door, asking to be let in.

On seeing Winona attired for the outside, Meda cocked her head quizzically. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Just the salon," Winona answered, "I'm taking on some extra hours." Lying always came easily to her, and while she loved Meda more than life itself, that love didn't hinder the lies one bit.

Shoulders slumping, Meda heaved a sigh. "That's a bummer..."

Sometimes Winona wondered if Meda knew just how to pull specific heartstrings into puppeteering her. This was one such instance. To not ask her little sister about her troubles warranted guilt, the unpleasantness of which she did not want to deal with. So, she ultimately asked, "why? Do you need something?"

"I signed up for the college Cultural Club and they want a submission on why I should be accepted," said Meda. "Apparently, they're very exclusive..."

"And you want help with the submission," Winona deduced.

Meda nodded. "I was thinking about a video submission. I want to sing in my regalia. I want shots of me singing interspersed with shots of forests and creeks? The main content will be me, of course, in Willow Park..."

"So take the tripod and do it," suggested Winona, not seeing why she needed her aid at all.

Pouting, Meda protested, "but I can't handle the camera and the tripod in my regalia!"

"Sure you can."

"Please, Winona. Please! I'll do the dishes and laundry this week." Meda clasped her hands together, imploring, "pretty please. The deadline is the day after tomorrow. I can't do this without your expertise in aesthetics and videography."

Winona no longer had to wonder; this was proof enough that Meda was well-versed in what to say and do to get her way. The sweet entreaty of her voice and the even sweeter earnestness in her sparkling eyes made denying her very difficult. Winona relented without any fight. "Fine. I don't start until noon, so we've got some time. Go, get dressed."

Singing a string of thank yous and I love yous, Meda danced off. Winona chuckled, shaking her head.

The girls chained their bicycles outside Silva's Supermarket. By the time Winona hefted the camera bag over her shoulder and tucked the tripod under her arm, Meda had rushed inside. "We need to use your backroom," she told Rorio who was counting bills at the cash register. She hurried past him without waiting for a response, enjoining, "it's important!"

Rorio looked to Winona for an explanation, his eyebrows raised. "Sorry," Winona said sheepishly, "it's for college. We won't be long."

He conveyed his understanding with a nod and reverted to his counting. Winona thanked him before letting herself into the backroom and locking the door behind her.

It took them nearly half-an-hour to adorn Meda in all the elements of her regalia, in spiffing out the ribbons of her Grass Dress, in bedizening her with shells and sequins, beads and bibelots. While Winona assembled the headdress, Meda braided her tresses. There was a brief struggle with the leather strips that secured the headdress to the elaborate knots of her three braids, but with Winona's extra pair of hands, it was brought to order soon.

When Meda stepped out of the backroom, Rorio audibly gasped. "You look like a queen," he said, his sincerity showing in his wide eyes.

"Oh, thank you!" Meda graced him with a slow spin.

Winona felt pride bloom in her soul as she came to terms with the fact that her baby sister was not a child anymore. She'd grown into a tall, bodacious woman – now breathtaking in the scintillation of her jewelry, her beaming face as luminous and lovely as moonshine, she drew the eyes of everyone present in the bodega.

"Come on, Winona," Meda sounded, dragging Winona out of her reverie. She was already at the door.

Winona fell in step with Meda, and she hooked her arm with hers. They had only walked a few paces when a man coming towards them paused. Winona narrowed her eyes at him, suspicion piquing in her brain – a small town like Andover didn't boast many strangers. Irked by the lewd looks he sent Meda's way, Winona's free hand curled into a fist at her side, nevertheless, Meda walked right by him, pulling her along.

"Woah, woah, woah, slow down, sweetheart," he called, whistling. "Hallowe'en isn't until next year!"

Meda stopped in her tracks at that. Winona felt her tensing before she turned to face the man. "This is not a costume, you stupid fuck!"

His initial wolfish grin transformed into a sneer, his flippant tone replaced with a venomous bite, he asked, "what did you just call me?" He advanced on them until he stood in front of Meda, a little too close for Winona's comfort. "You wanna say that again, bitch?"

Even though Winona was aware that Meda could feed him his testicles if she wanted to, the overprotective beast within her still rose. Her sinews tightened to thews, ready to strike at the slightest offense from him.

Exceeding his height by a good few inches, Meda stared him down and repeated, "this isn't a costume. You. Stupid. Fuck."

With a snarl, the man attacked Meda. His hands just about reached her neck; however, Winona was faster. Dropping the tripod, she grabbed him by his shoulders, wrenched him back, and flung him away from Meda. He landed gracelessly on his bottom, astonishment painted across his features.

"Hands off, asshole." Steeped in the promise of violence, her voice was low and even. While he struggled to his feet, she turned to Meda, concern overturning her anger. "Are you okay?"

Bobbing her head in assent, Meda smiled, but it quickly slipped as she sighted something. "Winona!" she shrieked.

Winona pivoted, her arms already up by her face in defense. Red-faced and raging, the man lunged with a punch.

The blow did not come.

Winona looked up to see that Rorio Silva had caught the assailant's flying fist in his hand. He placed himself to shield the girls. "Assaulting women in broad daylight, on a busy street... man," he stated coolly, tsk-ing. "At least three people here are about to dial 911."

Pushing the man back as he released his fist, Rorio inclined his head and signaled him to leave. He took the cue, and walked backwards. Still glaring at Rorio, he produced a police badge from his pocket and flashed it around. "That's right, cunts!" he spat. Jabbing a finger in their direction, he added, "you better not touch me when I'm on duty. And watch your back, you redskin whores."

Amidst the indignant outcry from the onlookers and their jeers of "fuck off, racist pig," Winona started forward. Rorio blocked her with one, rather beefy arm. "Don't mind him. Empty vessels make the most noise," he adjured softly. "You two go on ahead and do your college project. That's more a worthy use of your time and energy than to spend it on someone like him."

Winona gave him a stiff nod, readjusting the strap of the camera bag across her chest. "Thanks, Rorio," Meda said. When she intertwined their fingers together and tugged her alongside herself, Winona didn't resist. Through the blood pounding in her ears, she heard Meda, still riled and waspish, speaking beside her. "I hate that he gets to reap all benefits from society - he gets paid to 'protect', he gets a house, he gets medical insurance... urgh! The worst part is that even if we file a complaint against him, law enforcement will do anything to protect one of their own. It's so fucking unfair."

That was a fact; well-established and well-known. Winona knew it like she knew any other truth. She knew it like she knew that the heritage which fueled the Silverheels' pride and self-reliance was the very same that fueled some people's hatred and intolerance. The furious storm in her heart sent the winds of vengeance to her mind – a nefarious idea germinated. "I think..." she ventured, putting her cogitation to words, "... to make things fair, we need to take the law in our hands."