Jason

None of us wanted to see the old man's face.

To watch whatever he might say flicker across it.

Real life swallowed us again after that.

Classes, jobs, bills.

On the surface, things went back to normal, but the trip hung over us like a shadow at noon.

We didn't talk about it in detail.

If someone said, remember Utah?

It was always followed by an awkward laugh and a quick subject change.

The notebook entry, the double set of names, became one of those things we all remembered slightly differently, like a story heard in a dream.

About six months later, I was working a late shift at the outdoor gear shop where I'd gotten half my stuff for that trip.

A woman came in near closing, looking for a new sleeping pad.

She was in her 40s, Navajo, wearing a faded t-shirt that said something about a local school.

We got to talking, the way you do when the store is empty.

She mentioned she did a lot of guiding in the desert.

I mentioned, against my better judgment, that I'd gone on a week-long trip down south that had weird vibes.

Her face shifted at that.

Not in a dramatic movie way, but her eyes sharpened.

What kind of weird?

She asked.

I hesitated.