I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week. I lie there half-awake, and just when I’m about to drift off, the knowledge of what I’ve done smacks me in the face and I’m suddenly wide awake and panicky; I see the oak tree begin to fall and I hear the dryad scream in terror.
I didn’t think it would be this bad. I thought I’d be safe. But the guilt is eating at me, holding my heart and squeezing it. I can’t work. I can’t even look at my chainsaw. I’m going to have to quit the crew.