Jonas

I'd been up there plenty of times.

Said the guy left a name, something like Craig's, but Mitch didn't know him personally.

Offered me 40 bucks cash and a six-pack if I dropped it off.

I figured, sure, still sunlight left and I'd driven every twist and turn in that county a hundred times.

Or so I thought.

I made the turn off Route 19 and started the slow climb up Millner Ridge.

It was quiet, that kind of unsettling quiet, where even the birds seemed to have called it a day.

About 15 minutes in, I noticed I hadn't passed a house in a while.

Or a mailbox.

Just trees.

Leafless, bony things that clattered softly in the wind.

The fog was starting to pull in low along the tree line, like enough in spots that it looked like smoke.

That's when the GPS quit.

No signal.

Just a frozen screen and the little arrow stuck in place.

I hit the dash a couple of times like that was going to do anything.

It didn't.

I was already too far in to turn back.

So I slowed down and kept going, eye-scanning for any numbers in the mailboxes that might match what Mitch had written down in the receipt.

Nothing matched.