Jason

No wrongness.

Just my voice, the way it sounded in my head, not filtered through lungs and throat.

The shock of it made me jerk my hand back like I'd been burned.

The voice outside went silent.

The silence pressed in, thick and waiting.

Then, very gently, right at the edge of hearing, I'll see you later.

The sour, rotten smell of wet fur and burned meat seeped under the door for a moment, faint as a memory.

Then it was gone.

The hall light flickered once and steadied.

A door down the hall opened and closed, someone's footsteps echoing on the stairs.

I stood there for a long time shaking, staring at the door.

Eventually I backed away, step by step until I hit the wall.

I slept that night with every light in my room on and a chair jammed under the doorknob like that would mean anything if it really wanted in.

That was years ago now.

I haven't been camping since Utah.

I still hike sometimes on busy trails close to town where you can always see another human within shouting distance.

I still love the desert, in the way you can love something that almost killed you.

But I don't go deep anymore.

I don't sleep on the ground between sandstone walls.

I don't let the night close over me like water.