Guest

I parked a few spots away, got out, and started my normal routine.

Stretch, check pack straps, tuck keys into a pocket I won't lose.

I said hello in that automatic trailhead way, not expecting a conversation.

He didn't answer.

I assumed he hadn't heard me, so I said it again, a little louder.

He turned then, slowly, and looked straight at me.

No smile, no nod, just a look that felt like he was taking inventory.

The rational explanation was simple.

Someone marked the trail for some reason.

Search and rescue.

A hunter's route.

A survey crew.

Or maybe it was tape left from a past project and nobody bothered to take it down.

But it looked too clean and too fresh for that.

I went straight back the way I had come, toward the trailhead, toward my car.

As I moved through the corridor of trees I started to notice the tape more sharply.

It wasn't just tied randomly, it was tied in pairs sometimes, making a kind of gate.

And in some spots there were small pieces of tape on the ground, like someone had trimmed it.

The ground was littered with those small red scraps, half buried in leaves, like confetti from something ugly.

I walked forward slowly, staying on the center of the trail, putting distance between me and the brush where someone could be hidden.