Jonas

Neither of us answered.

We just got in the truck.

He made a joke about us being jumpy city kids.

Then he went to look at the shed.

He came back different.

Didn't say a word the whole drive home.

Never brought it up again.

Back in November, I was staying with my uncle Rob in a tiny, half-forgotten town in southern Nepalish called Tanner's Creek.

The place barely showed up on maps anymore.

Rob had been living out there alone for a while, tucked away in this old, leaning trailer just off a cracked gravel road with no street sign.

A whole area felt like it had stopped moving decade ago.

No cell reception for miles.

No neighbors within shouting distance.

Closest one was a retired guy named Arby about a mile down the hill, and even he was hardly around.

Rob didn't mind the solid sheet.

He liked things quiet.

Said it helped him think better.

He'd few things before the coal set in, mainly fixing some busted plumbing and patching up the skirting around the trailer.

Last winter had nearly frozen his pipe solid, and he wasn't trying to repeat that.

I figured sure I had time, and to be honest, I kind of wanted the break.