Please never contact me again.

Some words are stone arrowheads, dipped in dripping rancor, shot in rage and left lying among the ruins of a bygone time.

Once shot, an arrow cannot be called back. The woman who has let it fly will eventually find it–at the same moment she discovers she is a tenderfoot. There, embedded in her heel, it has found its home. She stumbles to sit, understanding a terrible lesson. The weapon she used has wounded unintended prey.