Jonas

Keeping pace without trying.

Couldn't.

I bolted down the hill, not caring how steep it got or how easy it would be to trip.

I saw the pipeline gate and didn't stop.

Climbed it in two steps.

Scraped my knee on the top.

Didn't care.

Ran down the gravel road until I saw Marshall's truck parked crooked near the bend, engine running, window cracked.

He looked up when I got close and let out this laugh like he thought I was being dramatic.

Said something like, what, see a bear or something.

I didn't say anything, just opened the passenger door, climbed in, and slammed it hard enough that he jumped.

I think he figured something had spooked me, but he didn't press it.

Two days later, he called.

Said someone had broken into the cabin.

Asked if I had gone back.

I told him no.

It was early November, the start of dear season, and I'd taken two weeks off work to stay at my Uncle Cal's old trailer out near Winlow.

That part of the mountains doesn't really have street signs, let alone neighbours.

Cal died about four years back, and no one in the family ever bothered to sell the place.

Honestly, I don't think anyone really wanted to deal with it.