Mason

He reacted like we were describing a known hazard.

He took notes.

He asked for details that seemed oddly specific.

The direction of the cabin, the look of the symbol, whether the man had any visible tattoos, whether we'd seen traps.

When I described the symbol, Ellis' eyes narrowed slightly.

"'Have you seen that before?'

I asked.

He didn't answer directly.

He just said, "'You did the right thing getting to the road.'

Then quietly he added, "'You're not the first.'"

That sentence hit me harder than anything else he said, because it meant there was a file somewhere, a pattern.

Other people who'd walked into those trees and come out with eyes like ours.

Maybe people who didn't come out at all.

They didn't let us leave immediately.

They asked if we could go to the station to give a fuller report.

They offered medical evaluation.

Mason refused at first, then agreed when his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Before we drove away, Ellis walked around our car slowly, looking at it like it might hold another message.

When he reached the driver's side rear quarter panel, he stopped.

He crouched and touched something near the paint.