Jonas

Then I heard him outside, slow, steady footsteps circling the shack, not rushing, just pacing, listening, waiting.

At one point, he leaned against the wall.

I saw the shadow of his boots through a gap between the boards.

He just stood there, and then nothing.

I didn't move for a long time.

It felt like hours, but it was probably twenty minutes.

When I finally called out the back, I didn't go near the trail.

I stuck to the trees and stayed low, cutting behind the ridge until I hit the edge of the neighbor's pasture.

My station was a prefab shed.

Metal walls, one tiny window, propane heater that only worked when it felt like it.

Inside, I had a chair, a clipboard, a CB radio, and not much else.

No Wi-Fi, barely a signal on my phone unless I hiked uphill with both arms out like I was praying to the sky.

The point of the job was basic.

I logged anyone who came through the area.

Hikers, rangers, maintenance crews.

If they showed up, they signed in.

If they left, they signed out.

I kept a paper look, radioed in anything unusual, and that was about it.

By mid-November, traffic dropped off almost completely.

The weather turned, the casual hikers stopped coming, and the hunters stuck to more interior routes.