James Turnbow

You could feel it more than hear it, like the whole earth groaned and tried to shake us off.

I curled my knees up to my chest and held the bag tighter.

That's when I decided to dig through it, mostly to keep my mind busy.

There were granola bars, bottles of water, a weather radio with crank batteries, a flashlight, and at the very bottom, a long leather sheath.

It was a hunting knife, one of Dad's old ones.

I slid my fingers around it and felt the familiar ridges of the deer antler grip.

I kept it close, buried beneath the granola, gauze, and matches.

Somewhere above us, metal screamed as the wind tore at the shed.

Each gust felt like an unseen hand pressing down on us.

The room was getting smaller.

You're awful quiet, the man said.

He stood up at some point, and now he was walking slowly toward the middle of the room.

I clenched the knife but didn't draw it.

I'm just tired, I said.

You remind me of my daughter.

He stopped halfway between us.

She's about your age.

Oh, I didn't want to give him a reason to keep speaking.

Yeah, he nodded.

I haven't seen her in a long time, though.