Jonas

Mark lived a good twenty minute drive away, but I liked staying closer to the job site.

Gave me a break from people.

It sat on a narrow patch of clearing just off a back trail, surrounded by pine and birch so thick you could lose sight of it ten feet out.

Inside was bare bones, a cot, a small folding table, a couple of hooks on the wall for jackets and gear.

Mark had set it up years back for deer season, but no one had really used it in a while.

You could tell by the way everything had a faint dusty smell, like dry bark and old wool.

The first couple of weeks went by without anything strange.

It was early November.

The mornings were crisp, afternoons just warm enough to sweat through layers, and nights cold enough that you could see your breath inside before the fire got going.

I got into a rhythm.

Wake up early, hole brush and cut logs with Mark all day.

Get back to the trailer after dark, heat up a can of super beans, maybe listen to the radio, then crash hard.

That kind of tired where your body doesn't give you the option to stay awake.

Then came the tenth night.

I remember checking the old wristwatch I kept hanging on a nail near the stove.

It said 2.15.

I hadn't heard anything, and I didn't remember dreaming.

I just opened my eyes and felt.

Top.

Not anxious.