Micah

Mutts.

Inside, it smelled like motor oil and jerky.

While Jonah topped off the tank, I grabbed a cup of bottles of water and a pack of gum.

The guy at the counter was older, probably in his seventies, wearing a flannel that looked like it had never been washed and a cap with no logo.

His voice cracked every other word, like someone had rubbed sandpaper over his vocal cords.

He asked where we were headed.

Just making conversation, I thought.

Jonah, being Jonah, gave the exact name of the trail system we were going to, like this guy was going to pull out a map and quiz us on elevation.

That's when the man's face changed.

His eyes drifted for a second.

He mumbled something low, just under his breath.

Then he shook his head and scanned my water bottles without saying anything else.

Akin Kar, Marlene between the seeds and whispered, I think he said, don't follow the hollow man.

Jonah grinned.

Perfect.

Every good hike means a creepy local legend, right?

I laughed.

We all did, sort of.

It felt like the beginning of a campfire story, something to talk about while we roasted marshmallows.

None of us took it seriously.