Evan

It lasted two seconds, and then it was gone.

I waited for Wes to make a joke.

He didn't.

He stood, shouldered the rifle, and walked a slow semicircle around the camp, scanning.

I stayed seated because I didn't want to become the nervous outsider who escalates everything.

That was my job, in a way, to keep things measured.

I called out once, loud, the way you do if you think there might be another ranch hand nearby.

Hey, anyone out there?

My voice sounded small.

The desert eats sound like it eats footprints.

No answer.

Wes came back, sat down and said, Don't do that again.

I asked him why.

He stared at the fire and said, If it's a person, they'll answer.

If it's not, you're just teaching it your voice.

That would have been the end of it if it had stayed at that level.

I could have chalked it up to nerves and old stories.

But around 11, after the fire had burned low and we'd crawled into our tents, I heard my own name spoken outside.

Not shouted, not whispered, just spoken, flat, like someone standing at a polite distance.

Evan.