The Trick or Treater

          The SUV headlights cut across their front lawn causing elongating shadows to sprout from leafless trees and dead rosebushes that shudder and lurch like a wounded animal. Swinging into the driveway, Krista hears her boyfriend’s slurred swearing from the back of the rig. Brad had been so quiet the last couple miles she figured he had passed out on the drive home. Krista hears his muffled voice inside the dishwasher cardboard box serving as his robot costume, but the only words she actually understands are, “sons-a-bitches” and “jack o’ lanterns.”


          Krista parks the dark blue vehicle in front of their ranch style home nearly hidden by the abundance of front yard landscaping, tall decorative grasses and sunflowers now flaccid in the late October cold. She opens the back hatch still smiling about the storage area being the only place they could fit Brad once he donned his bulky outfit. Her own sleek black cat ensemble hadn’t been nearly so problematic, neither in transit, nor at the party. Brad, on the other hand, had managed to knock over an unattended beer and a glass of wine, which probably wouldn’t have been a big deal if it weren’t a combined holiday and house warming party for her best friend.

          “What are you shouting about, Mr. Roboto?”

          Brad spills out the back of the rig, nearly losing his footing in the loose gravel before standing to full height and pointing towards the three foot fence separating their front and backyards. In the dim glow emanating from their neighbor’s porch light, Krista sees the three jack o’ lanterns they had spent all of last night carving. The ten pound pumpkins have been toppled from their posts and lay broken on ground.

          “Those little bastards,” he slurs while waddling towards the downed gourds. “Should have known better.”

          “What little bastards?” Krista asks as they stand over their ruined decorations. Each Jack-o’-Lantern is directly below where it was originally placed having hit the ground with just enough force to split the thick walls revealing the pale orange innards. Held close to the earth by the heavy and chilled mountain air, is the earthy smell of pumpkin and the faint lingering odor of extinguished candle.

          “Those punk kids I’ve seen around here and down at the park. Who else would have done it?”

          “I don’t know,” Krista admits, “but I’ve never had any trouble with any of the children in Timberline and I’ve lived here all my life. In this town, everyone knows everyone and word would get out too quickly. Besides, most of them are just way too polite to pull something like this. “

          “Well, at least they didn’t smash them all over the house and sidewalk like they do where I’m from. I guess your bastards are civilized bastards.”

          “I guess so,” Krista admits shaking her head and wondering which of her neighbors would possibly do something so unnecessary and juvenile. No suspects came immediately to mind; as far as she knew they were on great terms with the entire street. Brad is right though; the vandals could have done a lot more damage.

          Shortly after stepping inside and helping Brad out of his robot costume, Krista opens their front door to check on the candy bowl. Knowing they were headed to the party, but not wanting to deny the usual trick-or-treaters, Brad had suggested they leave a small dish on the front porch with enough candy to handle the limited number of annual visitors along with a sign that read, “Please just take one. Happy Halloween!” Krista sees the bowl immediately but it isn’t on the cedar side table where they left it. Down the front steps and out in the front lawn, she sees the dish lying on the ground flipped over. Scattered around the bowl are shreds of Tootsie Roll wrappers.

          She pokes her head inside and calls Brad to the scene. Already a little incensed from the pumpkin mess and still buzzed from the night’s drinking, her boyfriend arrives in the doorway his face instantly turning red at the messy sight before throwing his hands in the air.

          “What the hell? There was enough candy in that dish for every kid in Timberline to have some. Little bastards. And they had the nerve to stand there in our front yard eating it. I swear to God… grrr, how many kids didn’t get any after the thieves took everything. Hell, it was probably some other child leaving here empty-handed that decided to knock over my Jack-o’-Lanterns.”

          Caught between chuckling at Brad’s over-zealous reaction to some pumpkins, a cheap bag of candy, and the genuine disappointment she feels for her small mountain town, Krista just stands there shaking her head. As Brad bends over to gather up the dish and torn wrappers, there is a nearby crash of something hollow and aluminum hitting concrete violating the calm, dark night. The young couple exchange an apprehensive look upon realizing the noise came from around the side of the house where their old shed sits. The small storage unit is even older than their house, having already weathered some forty Timberline winters and long since lost its only door. Brad’s eyebrows suddenly climb to the middle of his forehead as if comprehending something for the first time.

          “The little pigs are still here,” he whispers. “They saw our car pulling up and had no choice but to duck into the side yard and now they are trying to hide in the shed. That sounded like your empty gas can.”

          “Think so?” Krista whispers. “Well they have to know we heard that.”

          “They’re probably shitting bricks as we speak,” Brad says in an equally hushed tone. “This is going to be fun. Here, hand me your key chain so I can use the little flashlight.”

          Krista fumbles through her front pocket and hands over her car keys. Rubbing his fingertips together in anticipation, Krista’s boyfriend slinks into the dark shadows beneath the roof, and slips towards the side yard barely visible. Brad looks back for a split second, offering Krista a wolf-like grin before vanishing around the corner.

          Krista cups her mouth with both hands. “Don’t hurt anyone. Just scare them,” she says unsure if he can even hear her. Not wanting to witness what might be an ugly exchange between her hot-headed boyfriend and some dumb kids, she waits inside their doorway listening intently for the impending encounter.

          After a couple seconds of silence, the young lady hears Brad’s voice utter a quick, “Ah-ha!” followed by a hissing growl, another loud metallic crash and then a startled, high-pitched yelp sounding more like a terrified teenage girl. Krista darts around the corner to see Brad’s shadowy figure scrambling to pick himself off the ground just outside the shed door. So panicked is her boyfriend, he actually peels out upon reaching his feet and nearly falls again, just barely managing to catch himself with one hand before propelling towards Krista with his eyes bulging.

         “There’s a freakin’ bear in your shed,” he gasps as he grabs Krista by the elbow and starts dragging her towards the front door. “I saw its shadow when I flashed the light inside and the damn thing growled at me. A saw its eyes!”

          Krista manages to dislodge Brad’s firm grip. Some pressing notion of incredulous disbelief has her needing to see the wild animal for herself. Black bears aren’t uncommon in Timberline, but she had never had one in her yard before. Turning back just as Brad darts around the front of the house, Krista notices her boyfriend left her tiny flashlight in the shed where he no doubt dropped it upon being startled. The keychain scatters a dim glow out the door of the shed and inside the light, she notices the swelling shadow of what is indeed a shaggy beast getting larger as it approaches the doorway. Krista is just about to chase after her Brad, when the animal pokes its head out of the shed.

          Krista first gasps in surprise upon seeing the beast and then doubles over in laughter as the animal steps out of the doorway into plain sight. Brad must have just seen a quick optical illusion with the light and projected shadows, clearly never getting a good look at the animal itself or he wouldn’t have experienced such an alarmed reaction. At least she hoped so.

          “What are you doing? Get in here!”

          Brad’s terse voice sounds as if it is coming from well inside the house, causing Krista to laugh even harder, tears actually welling in the corners of her eyes as uncontrolled hysteria takes over. The big raccoon standing outside the shed sits back on its haunches and studies her with a guarded expression. The masked animal is missing all but the ragged base of one ear and she instantly takes note of the familiar white scar running in a diagonal line across its skull. For a second, the animal doesn’t seem to recognize her and then Krista remembers her own costume complete with pointy ears, and long tail. She removes her whiskered black mask and smiles down at her seasonal friend.

          Taking a moment to catch her breath between gales of laughter, Krista finally manages, “I see you met Hollyfield. He shows up every year around this time. Come say hello.”

          Upon hearing his name, Hollyfield raises one forearm and stretches out its long, dexterous fingers as if expecting another piece of candy or just offering to shake someone’s hand.

          “I don’t know,” Krista says to the old raccoon still chuckling. “He might need a few minutes before we can do a formal introduction.”

Falling on Swords

          Peering over a three foot fence and holding back a lilac branch with the remains of his right hand, Spencer Rayne hears a burst of laughter slice through the still afternoon air. Sounding like the cackles of young boys, it appears to emanate from the abandoned house next door, and he can’t help wondering if his mind is up to its usual tricks. The laughs sound again, louder this time, and Spencer is about to change his view to a hole in the side fence when the mailwoman rounds the corner. Spencer glances at his watch. 13:35. Right on time. The woman is older than Spencer, blond hair showing the first streaks of white, but defined calves and shapely lower thighs climbing into the hems of her blue shorts reveal a woman still very much in shape. As she approaches his neighbor’s mailbox, Spencer hears the voices again except, instead of laughing, they are now chanting, “Kitty, kitty, kitty.”


          He glances around for his own Maine Coon. Mrs. Piggy, named for her unusual size and temperament, had been weaving through his legs in dizzying figure eights just minutes ago. A familiar hiss knifes through the air and Spencer doesn’t bother confirming his suspicions before he is on the move. With that excited energy he grew addicted to while conducting house sweeps in Baghdad, the young man darts along his fence line until he has a visual on the neighboring backyard. In the far corner of the lot, four teenagers are gathered around an old tin shed with the doors rusted wide open. The largest of the kids is using a long willow branch to poke at something inside the storage unit. Between their legs, he catches a glimpse of Mrs. Piggy pinned against the wall. She is puffed out to twice her normal size and baring her fangs as if daring any of the boys to make a move.

          Spencer’s mind is instantly filled with the sound of small-arms fire and concussive explosions. Ash and smoke obscure his vision a split second before everything turns red. The next thing he sees are two children, pale faces filled unholy terror, running past him as they might flee a descending Tomahawk helicopter. Another boy tries to back away, hands shielding his face, but instead, stumbles over his heels and winds up on his ass inside the shed.

          The largest boy, frozen in terror, has the willow ripped from his grasp so violently it leaves a burn across his palm. In the next instant, the chubby teenager is on his backside next to his friend. Stooping over the cowering youth is a camouflaged, black-bearded demon clutching the kid’s shirt in one fist while the only remaining finger on Spencer’s mutilated hand begins poking the boy’s forehead with every syllable he speaks. His voice, a barely audible hiss.

          “If I ever so much as see you walking down my street again, I will cut you in half. Do you understand?”

          There’s no way they could understand. There’s no way they could know. In the recesses of his nightmares, Spencer is picturing what is left of a young Iraqi boy holding a plastic machinegun while his commanding officer barks in his ear. The older man is trying to convince the young soldier he had made the correct choice. The only choice, given the circumstances.

          “You will have no one to blame but yourselves, if you ever get within a mile of my cat again.”

          The color continues to drain from the teenagers’ faces as if they are bleeding out, becoming ghosts, like the walking dead survivors of an I.E.D. slowly seeping from a hundred tiny holes. A dark spots appears and begins to spread in a circular manner across the crotch of the larger kid’s jeans. Something about the smell reminds Spencer of the post battle adrenaline rush, a moment when the thunder and adrenaline subsides and the shit, piss, and blood of war sets in.

          With the battle subsiding in his mind, Spencer is able to see himself through the boys’ naïve, petrified eyes. Suddenly aware of his grotesque finger, the young soldier slides his pink claw into a deep cargo pocket. Fighting off a flood of foolishness, Spencer steps back and straightens himself with a long, deep breath. Even Mrs. Piggy had shrunk against the wall in the wake of his radiating malevolence. The fat cat, recognizing her owner once again, takes the opportunity to leap across the two boys and then, defying her rotund appearance, bounds up over the fence separating the properties.

          Spencer drags both boys to their feet, and with a final, “Get the hell out of here,” shoves them towards the street. As the two boys trip over each other getting to full-speed, the older man realizes the mail carrier is standing in the road staring at him. The woman holds his gaze with a slightly cocked head before realizing they are making eye contact and quickly looks away. She misses Spencer’s awkward shrug, and hustles towards the next house on her route.

          “Real smooth,” he mutters, “the cops should be here any second. Screw it. Let ‘em come. I didn’t do anything. I could have… I should have, but didn’t. They can all go to hell.”

          Still grumbling under his breath, Spencer marches off to his backyard to check on Mrs. Piggy. Because of her tough nature, he half-expects to find her already taking a nap in a warm spring sunbeam. Instead, he rounds the back corner of his house to see his giant cat still fluffed to maximum size, turned sideways, and slowly advancing on his woodpile. Her hiss turning into a deep throated growl the likes of which Spencer had never heard.

          The young man’s first instinct is to make a joke about also hating the stack of cedar rounds because his intended firewood had been buried beneath a freakishly early snowstorm relegating them to expensive gas heat all winter. He decides the feline won’t appreciate his humor.

          “What’s with you? Still pissed about those punks? You could have taken at least two of them without my help.”

          The noises permeating from his twenty pound cat turn absolutely demonic as she approaches the base of the woodpile. Spencer begins considering the possibility of Mrs. Piggy having suffered some head trauma when he notices movement near the top of the mound. A grinning set of razor-sharp teeth emerges from the shadows of a hole tucked between the top logs and Spencer realizes his cat is only responsible for half the wretched, violent racket. The intruding beast, now extracting itself from the burrow with a set of three inch claws, is making sounds that would give Satan nightmares.

          Mrs. Piggy freezes in her tracks as the creature pulls itself into the light. Spencer recognizes the animal from a recent television documentary. As far as he knows, it is the first ever sighting in the small mountain town of Timberline and it is happening in his own backyard. The masked wolverine creeps towards the man and cat, spitting and gnashing its teeth in a manner every bit as intimidating as any legend of the predator would have people believe. Afraid to bend over and attempt to manage a squirming cat in one hand, Spencer backs away from the woodpile’s new king. Sensing her backup’s withdrawal, and for once displaying common sense, Mrs. Piggy retreats alongside her owner.

          The soldier almost bursts into maniacal laughter upon realizing his first instinct is to lob a grenade into the animal’s hole. In the next instant, he is locking eyes with the shaggy brown creature, its dark pupils shooting sparks from some inner fire. Spencer recognizes something coldly familiar in the creature’s unflinching gaze. As the animal reaches the base of the woodpile, the young man realizes the wolverine is dragging its hindquarters. Although there is no visible blood or bone, one of its legs is badly broken, the appendage hanging limp and useless from the wolverine’s hip socket.

          With a distant voice screaming, “Medic!” the young man notices the creature’s gaunt ribcage threatening to push through its tightly stretched hide. The predator’s fur is matted down in greasy patches, looking as though it has given up on grooming itself. Knowing the wolverine’s fierce reputation, Spencer is at a loss for what could have brought a warrior to such a sorry state.

          “Jesus buddy, did you take on an entire wolf pack, or we’re you hit by a car?”

          The wolverine continues its vicious display for a wary Mrs. Piggy while Spencer heads inside to rummage through his refrigerator. Upon returning, he tosses half a pound of expired bologna towards the base of the woodpile. The animal drags itself toward the pungent meat and begins to feed. Spencer almost laughs at the site of the terrifying animal as it is forced to swallow while maintaining its perpetual snarling. With the meal devoured in scant seconds, the wolverine inches backwards up the sloping woodpile into the darkness of its den, never taking its eyes from the man before it.

          “You’re welcome,” says the young soldier genuinely impressed by the animal’s ravenous nature. The wolverine reminds him of several young men at boot camp, bean poles defying physics with how much grub they could pack away.

          “Been a while since you ate, eh, or did your mom just never teach you any manners?”

          For the next week, Spencer is at the woodpile with the breaking dawn and again in the evening delivering meals to his visiting carnivore. Without fail, the scenario plays out exactly like the first time with the broken creature dragging itself from the cedar pile and churning out a barrage of stomach twisting growls as it wolfs through ample portions of chicken and pork chops. Skewering the young soldier and his cat with its black, dead-eyed glare, the animal eats every scrap, waits a second to see if more food will magically appear, and then slowly retreats to its home.

          The young soldier names the wolverine, Hank, after his deceased grandfather. Hank Rayne was the most disagreeable man Spencer had ever known. A World War II vet, the man returned from the front lines an equally hateful and self-loathing individual whose wife ultimately left him for less damaged goods. Even with nothing apparent to live for, the man held on for 100 years of chain-smoking drunkenness. Spencer’s father once said Hank would never die because Ol’ Beelzebub was afraid the bastard would single-handedly storm Hell’s gates and take over.

          Even though he was afraid of the man growing up, Spencer later began to admire his grandfather for having walked a road through life that few could stomach. He lived his daily existence his way and never compromised for anyone. He never felt that societal obligation to put a happy face on his bad feelings, but instead, chose to embrace the world in the manner it had presented itself. He knew of nature’s inherent ugliness and cruelty. He had seen it firsthand on the blood-stained fields of war. In that sense, Hank the wolverine is a lot like his grandfather. Almost nobody would look beyond those bitter outer shells, and Spencer was still too young at the time of Hank’s death to have done so, but through a wounded predator, feels a renewed connection with his equally damaged relative.

          On the seventh day of his woodpile’s occupation, Spencer and Mrs. Piggy approach Hank’s lair with a package of uncooked sausage. For the first time, they are greeted with silence instead of the wolverine’s guttural growls. His fat cat, stops just short of the cedar chunks and lifts her nose to test the air. The young man, standing on his tip-toes, tries to peer into Hank’s den, but can barely see inside the entrance.

          “Hank, you there buddy,” he asks while tossing a single link to the top of the woodpile. “I brought you some breakfast. Hope you like artificial maple flavoring.”

          There is no response, not a sound or hint of movement from within. Somehow, the eerie silence is more unnerving than the wolverine’s horrendous snarling. Ready to spring back if necessary, the young soldier stands on a section of stump, trying to get a better vantage point. At first, all he can see is impenetrable shadows, but the longer he stares, the more his eyes adjust to the darkness. At last he can make out the faint outline of a single paw nearly the size of his own hand down inside the hole. The unmoving appendage is all he can see. Spencer tosses another sausage link, this one landing inside Hank’s den almost touching one of the animal’s visible claws. Still, no movement. No sound. Nothing.

          “Hank, you ok?”

          An unsettling sensation creeps down Spencer’s spine. The soldier realizes he is consumed with concern. Not in a long time has he felt a genuine connection with a living thing other than his cat, but for some reason, the grumpy predator had wormed his way inside the young man’s consciousness. Mrs. Piggy punctuates the silence with a shrill cry as if also feeling the uneasiness in the air. Balancing on another cedar wedge lodged in the snow, Spencer steps half-way up the woodpile, but his view inside the wolverine’s den doesn’t improve. With a gruff, smoke ravaged voice barking in his ear, he knows what he needs to do. Nobody gets left behind.

          “I need you to trust me now, ok?”

          Moving purposefully now, the soldier climbs up the woodpile until he is at the mouth of the den, and then, with his good arm, Spencer reaches inside the hole. With alarms sounding in the back of his mind, he touches the cold ground inside and lets his fingers walk ever deeper into Hank’s lair. At the very edge of his reach, Spencer touches the paw. With a sudden intake of breath, he realizes the Hank’s calloused pads are faintly warm.

          “Jesus,” he shouts while with extracting his arm so quickly Spencer hits himself on the bridge of the nose. Fully expecting a crazed terror to follow his hand out the hole, the young soldier nearly leaps from the top of the pile to the ground below. When nothing happens, he is able to catch himself just before jumping. After collecting his nerves, Spencer reaches inside Hank’s den once more. Again, he feels the animal’s foot. In a less excitable frame of mind, the soldier realizes the flesh isn’t warm enough. Grabbing the animal’s paw tightly this time, Spencer pulls the heavy, lifeless wolverine from its home. Hank must have died within the last hour, his life force slowly fading into cold memory.

          The young soldier isn’t sure how much time has passed, but when he becomes aware of his surrounding once again, he is sitting on top of the woodpile cradling the wolverine in his lap, cheekbones damp and sticky. The creature’s bristly fur is clumped together and smells faintly of urine. Bothering Spencer the most are the wide-open eyes and frozen snarl on Hank’s face, lips pulled back in the menacing manner he’d grown used to. The wounded animal went to his death still fighting. There was no last second of peace, no pain-free drifting off into a dreamless sleep, the shaggy combatant new nothing but war in his final moments. What had always seemed an appropriate way for a warrior to die now tears through his heart like a sniper’s bullet. No soldier should have to die alone in his foxhole. With Mrs. Piggy curled up at his feet, he begins to plan a couple funeral celebrations. Another brother’s life played out like a cruel tragedy. But not without reason. He would see to that.

          The next day finds Spencer sitting at the edge of his street, pulling stubborn dandelions from around his mailbox. Pretending he can’t see her approaching feet from under the brim of his floppy ranger hat, the young man looks up in feigned surprise as the mailwoman reaches his house. Instead of the guarded expression he is expecting, the pretty blond woman is smiling down at him. Swallowing hard, Spencer climbs to his feet, wiping the dirt from his one good hand on his pants.

          “Look, I wanted to apologize for the other day. I might have gotten a little carried aw…” Spencer doesn’t finish his sentence before noticing the thick purple scar tissue starting at the woman’s throat and running down past the unbuttoned collar of her uniform. The sight reminds him of his own injury and he quickly slips the mangled hand into a pocket.

          “No big deal,” the woman stammers while awkwardly reaching up to pinch together the fabric exposing her neckline. “I saw what they were doing to your cat.”

          Spencer shifts his weight from one leg to the other, forcing his gaze away from whatever trauma she had clearly suffered. “Guess if they were your kids it might be a different story,” he says attempting a slight grin.

          Still fidgeting with her collar, the woman returns his smile. “Actually, one of the first kids you sent running is my boy. I laid into him when I got off work, but didn’t even need to. I think you taught them all a lesson they won’t soon forget. Sometimes, he reminds me of my ex, but he’s a good boy. And I’m glad you scared the piss out of that one chubby monster. I don’t like my son hanging out with him anyway.”

          Spencer laughs openly. It is a sound he barely recognizes from his youth. “I’m just glad I didn’t kill anyone. Some days…” he says trailing off.

          “I hear that,” she says. The woman then glances down to where his hand is hiding out of sight. “What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

          The soldier’s reaction is a surprise even to himself. On any other day, talking to any other person, the question would have bothered him. The blond woman’s presence is somehow making Spencer feel hypnotically at ease. As if injected with truth serum, the young man suddenly wants to share his story with the beautiful woman standing before him.

          “Iraqi Freedom,” he says.

          “Figured as much.” The woman quits toying with her neckline, again revealing the dense scar tissue. “Desert Storm,” she says. “The ex never did get used to it, but you know what? Now that he’s gone, I don’t feel quite as self-conscious. It’s important my son sees me as a whole woman, a strong mother. Sometimes, when I wake up from another goddamn nightmare, and it feels as if those memories could swallow me whole, all I have to do is take a look at his sleeping face and I know what it is I am living for. Know what I mean?”

          Spencer looks past the woman, at the distant canopy of evergreens climbing the surrounding mountains, the blue sky and marshmallow clouds. He hears the distant chirping of starlings and notices Mrs. Piggy sauntering towards them across his lush, overgrown lawn. The warm breeze caressing his cheeks shoots electricity all across his body, a phantom sensation even tingling fingers that no longer exist.

          “I do know what you mean.” The young soldier removes his hat revealing a mop of curly black hair. “Listen, I don’t suppose you would like to get some dinner sometime?”

          The mail carrier blushes slightly, the color causing her to look like a shy, young girl. Finally looking back at Spencer, she says, “Leave an invitation for me in the box tomorrow and I’ll see about arranging a babysitter.”

Athena's Glory

          Seeing Miss Glickson in the doorway of their A frame cabin, blubbering to his mother about her missing kitten, prompts Trevor to go upstairs and check his own pets. Despite his parent’s mild protests, the recently turned teenager has already accumulated two dogs, a guinea pig, three tarantulas, and a four foot python. Everything but the twin basset hounds are permanent residents of the young boy’s loft, built to overlook an old growth forest bordering the mountain town of Timberline. A quick glance confirms all his animals are visible, except the constrictor which remains balled up under a branch in one corner of its aquarium. At the opposite end of the glass cage, a white mouse darts back and forth obsessively pressing against the transparent walls with human-like hands.

          Tapping on the cage with one finger, Trevor whispers, “Rufus is gonna wake up soon.”

          He hears the front door close and glances out his window to see the old woman shuffling away from their front porch, back across the road to her own dilapidated cottage. With dusk giving way to night, the block’s only streetlight flickers on as she reaches her driveway. The fluorescent glow causes a faint reflection of the young boy to appear in the glass, but where his eyes should be, he sees two large golden orbs instead. As if someone has managed to trick him into wearing a pair of bug-eyed sunglasses without him knowing, Trevor reaches for his face with his fingertips. As the teenager touches his cheeks, confirming only the presence of flesh, the glowing disks blink close and then slowly re-open. Trevor realizes he is staring into the eyes of a large creature on his window ledge, and as if mentally deciphering an optical illusion, the animal’s dark silhouette becomes readily apparent.

          Perched on the young boy’s windowsill is the largest owl Trevor has ever seen. The magnificent raptor stands nearly a meter tall and appears to be wearing a hooded gray cloak cinched tight about its face. Although he has never seen one before, Trevor recognizes the image from one of his many nature books. It is the ghost hunter, the great gray owl. Subconsciously, the teenager pulls his face away from the hooked beak on the other side of the glass. As the boy inches backwards, the owl leans in even closer. It is then Trevor realizes the owl isn’t looking at him, but over his shoulder at the warm snake aquarium. Subtle twitches in those giant golden orbs reveal an intense focus on every movement of the white rodent.

          “You hungry? Might have to fight Rufus for it.”

          Trevor reaches towards the window with one hand and wiggles his fingers expecting the great bird to take flight. Never taking its attention from the aquarium, the owl seems absolutely indifferent towards the boy’s presence. In spite of his father’s voice sounding an alarm in the back of his mind, Trevor feels compelled to press his luck. Half-terrified, but uncontrollably curious, the teenager grabs the handle at the bottom of the frame and begins to slide the glass upwards.

          Again, he expects the owl to retreat back into the dark woods, but instead, before the pane is even halfway open, the great gray owl ducks under the wooden frame and boldly steps onto the interior ledge of the windowsill. Trevor takes two full steps backwards, instantly noting the thick, black talons protruding from the owl’s gnarled toes. From the shins down, the giant bird’s feet are covered in what looks like dull yellow scales. With claws ten times the size of his python’s fangs, the young boy has little doubt what kind of damage the raptor is capable of inflicting.

          Unsure of what to do next, Trevor is tempted to call down to his parents. He is afraid the sound of his voice might frighten away the visitor, or even worse, prompt a panicked reaction. Not in a million years would they approve of him opening windows for wild animals; they had enough concerns over his store bought pets. Instead, another idea flashes through his brain.

          “I take it you like mice? Guess I can stop at the pet store tomorrow and grab another one.”

          The owl bobs its head in what looks like deliberate confirmation to the young boy’s question. Trevor slowly backs away from the enormous bird and towards the aquarium. Betraying an otherwise unruffled facade, the great owl shifts its weight from one clawed foot to the other. The young boy pulls back the top of the cage and retrieves the mouse by its long tail.

          “I’ve got some good news and some bad news for y…” he begins, but the mouse cuts him off in mid-sentence by bending at the waist and reaching up to climb its own tail. Before the animal can bite his fingers, Trevor shakes his hand, accidently releasing the rodent. Instantly, the owl drops from its windowsill perch, wings extending nearly half the width of his room for a split second before refolding. The two animals hit the floor at the same moment with the pink-eyed mouse pinned beneath a gripping claw. In the next fluid motion, the owl severs the rodent’s spine with one quick bite of razor sharp beak. Feeling equally stunned, Trevor stands there mouth agape as the great gray owl turns, and with one silent flap of wings, is back through the window into the brisk night air.

          Unable to process what he just witnessed, all Trevor can do is stumble to his window and watch the owl bank over Miss Glickson’s house, vanishing amongst the impossibly large ponderosas edging her property. A toothy grin swallowing the lower half of his face, the young boy is tempted to run downstairs and tell his parents what just happened. Almost immediately, the powerful urge to share the encounter is tempered by reason. He knows from past experience with a juvenile black bear they didn’t want him feeding wild animals. Coupled with the wasting of expensive mice, the teenager is certain his parents would expressly forbid him from doing something like that again. Adopting a motto he learned from an older cousin, Trevor decides it really is easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

          The next morning, Trevor is out of bed and dressed for school earlier than usual. Bounding down the stairs two at a time, he sees his parents already seated at the dining room table eating buttered toast and cold cereal. They are sharing a hearty laugh as the young boy pulls up a chair in front of an empty bowl.

          “You should have heard her,” his mom is saying. “I mean, she’s always been loopy, but this time she’s gone over the edge.”

          “Well,” his father replies, “I agree that Timberline’s newest addition is a little strange, but I kind of doubt he’s a Satanist. People don’t move here to conduct ritualistic animal sacrifices, or whatever she was suggesting.”

          Trevor’s mom chuckles, “Yeah, I don’t see that either… but he is an odd one. I swear, whenever I notice the guy he is either staring at his feet or off into space. I’ve seen him walk by the house three times now and each time he’s stumbled over something. Dude needs to get his head out of the clouds and pay attention.”

          As his parent’s continue making jokes about the neighbors, Trevor’s thoughts revert to the great gray owl. Upon awaking, the young boy first imagined last night’s visit to be nothing more than a dream. Drops of dried blood found where the mouse had met its fate confirmed the evening’s events. Pouring himself a bowl of cereal, Trevor realizes his afterschool activities are already planned. He needs to shell out some of his meager weekly allowance for another mouse, but after that, he is going owl hunting.

          When the three o’clock bell finally rings, Trevor realizes he hasn’t heard a word from any of his teachers. So lost in thought, the young boy had barely grunted at his friends between classes. All day he has wondered what might have prompted such a creature to be so brazen. With the exception of a family of raccoon thieves living in the park, he had never heard of such behavior from any local wildlife. Of course, those masked bandits had been routinely fed by townsfolk until they lost all fear of humans, so slipping inside an open window for a morsel, seemed totally plausible. But a great gray owl?

          The more Trevor thought about it, the more he became convinced the wise old bird could somehow sense the boy’s inherent kinship with animals. On some instinctual level, or, maybe by observing his loft from a distant perch, the owl believes the teenager to be trustworthy. Still, Trevor doubts he’ll ever see the bird at his window again; he needs to take the search to his owl’s house this time.

          Trevor hops off his bike outside Surly Bill’s Pet Emporium to find the obese, balding proprietor blocking the entrance. Bill is taping a sign to the glass door with a bold, black banner that says, “Lost Dog”. Below the headline is a picture of a bulging-eyed Chihuahua wearing a pink sweater and matching collar. As he finishes attaching the poster with a last strip of tape, the store owner notices Trevor standing behind him.

          “Weren’t you just here yesterday? What, can’t get enough of my charm?”

          “The day before,” Trevor replies, ignoring the question. “The mouse escaped before I could feed Rufus. I need another one.”

          “Outsmarted by a rodent, eh?”

          The big man’s laughter, sounding more like a high-pitched wheeze, causes his whole torso to jiggle as he squeezes through the door. Trevor rolls his eyes and follows the fat proprietor inside his humid store. As usual, the young boy is punched in the face by the pungent odor of animal waste followed by the faintest whiff of cedar chips. Never a fan of the only pet shop in town, Trevor throws his money on the counter, grabs his feeder mouse, and is back outside breathing fresh air before having to absorb more of Surly Bill’s habitually obnoxious comments.

          Biking the back roads of Timberline with the boxed rodent in one hand, Trevor decides to forgo checking in at home. Most days his mother has him complete afternoon chores before he can play. The young boy knows he’ll get a tongue lashing, possibly even grounded, but his compulsion to find the owl supersedes any fear of punishment. Trevor turns off the paved street leading to his house and stashes his bike next to a dirt trail running into the dense woods behind Miss Glickson’s shack. He and some neighbor boys had worn down the path over several years and the rocky, uneven course now ran a couple miles into the forest before hitting an abrupt cliff overlooking the slow-churning Timberline River. The spooky woods had always served as Trevor’s favorite haunt, his imagination running wild once surrounded by the bronze pillars of ancient Ponderosas.

          With Memorial Day a week off, and the weather finally acting like spring, Trevor’s forest is beginning to feel alive. The ground cover, spindly ferns, and berry bushes displaying tiny green buds soon to cover the forest floor with abundant greenery once again. Half-aware of the seasonal changes, the young boy ventures deeper into the woods, attention focused on the thick pine boughs overhead. Spotting a creature with such magnificently effective camouflage is next to impossible, so he is hoping the owl’s movement will give it away. Of course, as a nocturnal hunter, seeing the raptor active during the day is equally unlikely. His best real chance is to find the nest, but staring around at the countless tree trunks supporting one massive canopy on pine needles, Trevor begins to realize just how stacked the odds are against his search.

          An hour later, and a mile down the trail, the young boy has seen no trace of the great gray owl. Developing a kink in his neck from constantly looking up, and knowing that every passing second puts him in deeper trouble with his parents, Trevor decides to call off the search. His frustration is like bitter medicine on his tongue, but as he begins the journey back home, he tells himself there is always tomorrow. The teenager isn’t going to give up on his owl after just one day.

          A stone’s throw from Miss Glickson’s backyard, and still checking the branches overhead, Trevor catches both feet on an exposed root and falls flat on his face. The cardboard box flies from his hand landing hard on a boulder causing the lid to pop off and spill its contents. The mouse freezes amongst the fresh moss and last year’s dead leaves. It takes a split second for the creature’s flight instinct to override caution and the rodent charges towards the closest hollow trunk of a long toppled tree. Knowing he’ll never make it, Trevor still tries to scamper to his feet and pounce on the mouse before it can vanish inside the log.

          It may be a flicker of shadow caught in the corner of his eye, or a subtle disturbance in the calm air, but Trevor senses the presence of the great gray before he sees it. Managing to pitch himself forward just as the great bird skims the top of his head, the young boy hits the ground as the owl snatches the panicked mouse in one great claw without stopping. With his heart hammering in his chest, the teenager watches the giant owl takes its meal forty feet into the air and land in the first intersecting boughs of a massive old crag. His owl is perched on a pile of interwoven sticks and his heart nearly stops at what he notices next.

          Sharing the nest with the great gray owl are three oval shaped bundles of wispy gray down. A second later, he makes out two dark spots at the top of each egg-shaped pile of fluff and realizes they are bouncing slightly in the nest. Trevor’s owl towers above the three babies with her chest fluffed out looking as proud as any mother he’s ever seen.

          “Oh my,” he whispers. “I can’t believe it.”

          Picking his way around the fallen limbs at the base of the dead tree for a better view, Trevor notices a dark, golf ball sized wad of wet fur stuck to the ground. Dragging his attention from the baby owls for a second, the young boy peels the sticky mass from the earth for a closer look. Scattered throughout the clump of hair are small white bones and Trevor almost gags at the acrid stench emanating from what appears to be some small animal turned inside out. The teenager tosses the fascinating discovery aside before noticing several more of the compact balls scattered around the tree.

          Despite the ever-increasing alarms in his head, Trevor returns his attention to the bobbing owl family for a few lingering minutes. At this point, he’ll be lucky to avoid being grounded, which will defeat the purpose of having found his owl’s nest in the first place. Assuming he can talk his way out of being so late, the teenager can return any other day to visit the family of raptors. With a smile so big it hurts his jaw muscles, the young boy sets out for home. Maybe if he brings his mother here to witness the adorable baby owls for herself, she will understand.

          The teenager has barely turned his back to the nest when he spots a darkly dressed figure through the wall of ponderosa trunks ahead. Squinting his eyes, he realizes it is Timberline’s newest resident. The stranger is holding what looks like a short length of pink leather. Unaware of the young boy’s presence, the man sniffs the strap, and then with a grimace, tosses it as far from the trail as possible. A second later the man bends at the waist and picks up another dark object. Again, he holds it under his nose, before breaking up the small clod with his thumbs and letting the pieces fall to the ground. The man cranes his neck skyward, staring into the canopy overhead while circling the trunks of nearby ponderosas.

          Slinking closer down the path towards the stranger, and emboldened from the success of his own search, Trevor’s curiosity gets the best of him. “Looking for something?”

          The man jerks with a start and spins about facing Trevor with narrowed eyes somehow managing to look guilty and suspicious all at once. His demeanor seems to relax a bit as his gaze is dragged down to the small boy standing before him. A gravelly voice emanating from deep within the man’s chest seems to bely his more slender build.

          “I’m always looking for something. What are you doing out here?”

          Despite his dark clothes, peculiar behavior, and suspicious mannerisms, Trevor doesn’t sense any malice from the stranger. “I was looking for something too,” he replies mimicking the man’s oblique revelation.

          “Hard to find anything out here,” the man says stealing another glance towards the pine boughs above. “You guys gotta lot of trees in these parts. Think you’d see more birds.”

          The stranger’s casual remark causes one of Trevor’s eyebrows to rise slightly and a small smirk sneaks across his lips. “We have birds,” he replies. “Big ones… you just have to know where to look.”

          “Surprisingly enough,” he begins, his tone of voice slipping into the measured and pleasant cadence of one of his teachers, “you have to keep your eyes on the ground to find the type I’m looking for.”

          “Sounds like you know something about birds,” Trevor says.

          “Thirty years as a professional and still learning. They can always surprise you.”

          Talking with someone who might understand, appreciate, or possibly be jealous of his discovery, compels Trevor to suddenly blurt out, “We even have great gray owls.”

          The stranger’s body language transforms from gradually relaxing to rigid focus, his eyes instantly guarded once again. “A great gray?” he asks. “You sure? Do you have any idea how rare those are in these parts?”

          “I think she might be new to the area.”

          “She? How do you know it’s a she?” With every question the man seems to be bending lower, his face inching closer to the young boy. Uncomfortable with the older man’s sudden, intense scrutiny, Trevor is reminded of his pressing need to get home.

          “Because boys don’t have babies,” he answers at last. “I have to get go…”

          The young boy is interrupted by the man’s sudden intake of breath; his eyes popping wide open. “Athena has a clutch? Where? You have to show me her nest.”

          “Uuuuh, it’s not far, but I really have to go… wait, what did you just say?”

          “Never mind, never mind,” he stammers, the man’s eyes clouding to reveal an inner torment raging between anguish and joy. “Can you meet me here tomorrow? I need your help with something... and don’t worry, I have the climbing gear we’ll need. Suppose we can still visit that way…” he trails off leaving Trevor feeling as if the man is now talking to himself.

          Backing down the trail, away from the visibly distraught stranger, Trevor suddenly stops in his tracks as a mental lock tumbler falls into place. Athena? Climbing gear? “What did you want to do?” he asks.

          “We’re going to move her nest over to the river… and we’re going to keep it to ourselves,” he says, conflicted eyes suddenly sparkling mischievously. “Your neighbors will appreciate it,” he says with a short laugh. “Trust me.”

The Projector

          The plunk of a small stone hitting the pond is all it takes to attract an emerald-headed drake and his dainty, tan hen. Like synchronized swimmers, the two ducks slice across the murky brown water and into the concentric circles of expanding ripples. Both birds swivel and bob their heads in a frantic, fruitless search. Timberline’s waterfowl had long grown accustomed to being fed by townies. So certain of receiving handouts, a growing population of mallards never even bothered to migrate. The second delicate splash brings them closer to a darkly dressed man seated on a rusted park bench. His lips twist into a terse smile.


          “Stupid ducks,” Tyler mutters while flinging a final stone. He flinches involuntarily, taking a quick intake of breath as the rock leaves his hand with more velocity than intended. The projectile splits the couple, barely missing both birds, and splashes them with shimmering droplets of water.

          “Sorry,” Tyler offers as the ducks, somewhere between flying and running, splash across the pond’s surface towards the opposite bank. Their strong wings slapping the water feels like a noisy intrusion in the otherwise calm, warm air of late summer. Again displaying their harmonious instincts, the birds touch down at the exact same moment and settle in at the pond’s far edge.

          “Where is she?” he wonders aloud, experiencing a momentary envious pang for the mallard’s natural ability to find a lasting partner. “Bet you never have to put up with this crap.”

          Renae is supposed to be meeting him for lunch. Hell, it was her idea. Tyler checks his watch for the third time in the last two minutes. Seven minutes late. Scratching his patchy blond facial hair, Tyler’s eyes narrow. “It’s just rude,” he mumbles. “I don’t make other people wait for me like I’m some goddamned king.”

          Their last phone conversation had been thick with tension. Ever since she spent Labor Day weekend with an old sorority sister in Seattle, Tyler had felt a growing chasm in their relationship. He hadn’t been happy about not being invited, and suspected something was amiss when she didn’t respond to his messages until the night she returned. When Renae had finally touched base, she seemed distant. In the back of his mind Tyler wondered if she had met someone, or even rekindled some old college flame.

          Tyler’s attention is drawn from his spiraling thoughts as the ducks suddenly dart across the pond towards another rusty bench. A frail, hunchbacked man appears from an overgrown, tree lined path and gingerly pulls up a seat. He looks to Tyler like a sack of bones held upright by faded jeans and a torn flannel shirt. In his gnarled hand is a plastic bread bag. Expressionless, the ivory-bearded skeleton scatters white chunks across the water and the mallards gobble up every morsel before the bread can sink.

          Things could be worse, Tyler thinks. At least I’m not that guy. The thought escapes his mind before he can channel it through any kind of politically correct filter. Tyler feels guilty for thinking that way but can’t help acknowledging the brunt assessment. Stealing sideways glances at the depressing scene, Tyler feels like he should try to be a little more patient with Renae. The younger man wonders if the elderly gentleman ever blew his chances with a possible soul mate, or if he’d ever experienced a genuine connection with another. Maybe the old man once found the love of his life and she had died leaving him in this wretched state. Who knows? Tyler looks away, unable to bear the thought of feeling so miserable. So all alone.

          Tyler checks his watch again. Nine minutes late. Surely, anything over ten begins to push the threshold of understanding. It’s not like she could blame traffic, not in the tiny mountain town of Timberline. A bear attack would come off as a more believable excuse. Maybe her battered Datsun had finally given up the ghost. The oxidizing piece of purple shit had been running ragged for months. Still, her cabin was a half mile from the park; she could have walked by now.

          In the corner of his eye, Tyler detects movement on the same path from which the old man recently emerged. His slumped posture straightens and Tyler feels the swirling doubts creeping back into the corner of his mind. He begins to stand and instinctually brush the hair from his face when the figure comes into view. The new arrival is a woman, but certainly not Ranae. This lady is hunched over and supporting her slow, shuffling steps with a cane. Her wild mop of curly hair is even whiter than the man’s beard.

          As the old man notices the woman’s arrival, Tyler folds his arms and sits back on the bench with his shaking head cocked sideways. Slowly, the brittle fossil twists in his seat, and by placing one hand on the backrest while the other pulls against the arm support, manages to drag himself to his feet. Despite the effort it takes to stand, Tyler sees the worn countenance transformed. The old man’s weary, blank expression has been replaced with a broad grin. He bows slightly and offers his forearm to the woman. Returning his smile, the old lady accepts his gesture and allows herself to be seated at the bench. Her partner hands over the plastic bag and then rests his palm on her thigh as she begins to feed the impatiently circling mallards.

          Tyler turns away so that he no longer has to witness the ancient couple’s public display of affection. Or the pitifully domesticated ducks. He checks his watch once again. Eleven minutes… almost twelve. “Seriously,” he hisses. “What the hell is the wrong with people?”

Gray's Catacomb

          Abandoned Silver Streak mine served as Allan Gray’s private escape from the alcohol fueled madness of his childhood home. By age ten, the gaunt, dark haired boy could smell the sickness and defeat seeping from his parents. Their sweat reeked of vodka, and they sat, day after day, in the mounting squalor of their den sharing spiteful barbs as their skin turned to leather from chain smoking. In the hazy, fetid air of their nearly windowless cabin, Allan could almost taste the metastasizing tumors that would eventually claim their lives.

          Left unsupervised from an early age, Allan made it a point to keep his distance from home. Rather than check in after a day of the torturously self-conscience nightmare known as school, Allan would vanish into the dense forest surrounding his mountain town, fishing streams, climbing trees, spying on strangers, and slaying squirrels with his wrist rocket. His parents never questioned his absence, not even when he began to stay out overnight, alone in his pitch black maze of tunnels.

          Allan found Silver Streak after following an overgrown jeep trail deeper into the mountains north of Timberline than he’d ever ventured. What a first appeared to be a small avalanche where the road came to a dead end against the mountain side turned out to be the collapsed entrance. Splintered support beams jabbed out of the pile of boulders and dirt like lopsided grave markers. Someone must have used dynamite to collapse the main shaft. After poking around, Allan realized the rockslide had covered the opening except for a narrow gap between two wedged railroad ties. A cool wind blasted from the crack indicating that somewhere, another opening to the outside world had to exist. Allan decided his mission was to return the next day with a flashlight, squeeze through the hole, and locate the other entrance from within the mine.

          Allan came back the following afternoon with a battery powered lantern quietly removed from his dad’s truck. His parents wouldn’t care about the condemned mine, but Allan would be severely punished for touching his father’s tools. Not that his old man needed any of the equipment. While most of the former loggers in Timberline had long since packed up and moved on, Allan’s dad hadn’t done anything but sit in a creaky old recliner splitting his wrath between family and television news since the sawmill closed.

          The young boy's heart thundered in his chest when he first squeezed through the narrow opening and showers of dirt rained down on him from above. Fearing a collapse, he had launched himself through the opening after getting halfway inside and slid down an embankment of gravel to the passage floor. A dust filled cone of light shone through the gap and Allan could make out rusted ore cart rails leading straight down a rocky tunnel seemingly carved through black granite. His lantern’s feeble glow revealed the passage ahead at least partially buried underwater. The air smelled musty despite the breeze and the temperature was noticeably cooler. Allan had pulled his light jacket tight around his neck as he first made his way into the unknown.

          The water on floor of the cavern was barely tolerable but after long stretches of freezing agony, the ground would emerge and he could walk on wooden ties between the cart tracks while his toes came back to life. In places, he could balance on the rusted rails and keep his soles just above the waterline. The damp walls of the mine possessed sporadic deposits of some milk white mineral; a kind of shimmering albino coral staining the otherwise black stone. To Allan it looked like walls of pearl set off with sparkling diamond flakes.

          During his initial expedition, the young boy was intrigued by the nearly translucent bodies of baby mice and leathery bats bobbing in the slow, frigid flow. He lifted one of the soggy rodents by its long limp tail, held the corpse in front of his face, and tried to imagine what it had been like to drown. The frail creature’s eyes had yet to fully develop, dark blobs behind a pink veil mercifully blind to the ugliness of the world. He pictured the thrashing of the damned gradually giving away to hypothermic resignation, water filled lungs, and ultimately, a sense of peace. Something about the idea made him happy.

          After passing the third intersection of branching tunnels, Allan had returned home knowing he’d need chalk if he hoped to find the other entrance without getting lost. After a month of nearly daily visits, he had mapped out a considerable portion of the tunnels by leaving notes and directional arrows on the mine walls. There were even numbers accompanying the various signs indicating approximately how many steps he could expect before the next branching passage.

          In spite of his mapping techniques, and venturing deeper and deeper into the elaborate labyrinth, Allan had yet to find the other entrance. Some tunnels eventually reached a gradually narrowing end, others seemed to branch forever, and the young boy quickly realized there were passages he couldn’t reach. In several places, the tunnels shot straight up into the mountain overhead where Allan could see even more passageways branching off.

          The corroded remnants of wooden ladders to the upper levels were still bolted to the walls, and the skeleton thin boy had tried climbing the sturdiest of the bunch, but the first damp rung crumbled in his grip before holding half his weight. One day, Allan thought, he’d be strong and brave enough to scale the sheer rock walls, reach the higher tunnels, and no doubt, the other opening.

          Despite the elusive nature of the second entrance, Silver Streak quickly became the only place Allan felt comfortable in his pale and dirty flesh. The anxiety of being in his parent’s presence, and the discomforting scrutiny he felt so intensely at school, all but vanished in those dark passages. Within the mine, he became a cave troll hunting heroic adventurers, a mad scientist living beneath an active volcano attempting to trigger an eruption, a deformed outcast, exiled from the village below and lurking at its fringes while plotting his revenge.

          Allan’s imagination ran wild, spurred on by a growing collection of graphic novels purchased from the spinning comic book rack in Ray Lynn’s convenience store. He had moved the hidden stash from his bedroom to a central chamber of intersecting tunnels nearly a mile into the mountain. The spacious cavern had become his central base within the mine. Despite rarely eating a home cooked meal, Allan never spent his lunch money at the school cafeteria. Instead, every penny went towards another gruesomely illustrated tale, flashlight battery, or slow burning candle.

          Unlike the other boys, Allan didn’t gravitate towards super hero comics; he had no interest in square chiseled jawlines, sculpted muscles, or goody two-shoes in ridiculous spandex saving the world. Allan preferred tales of horror and supernatural happenings. Zombies and ancient curses. He loved the idea of evil ghosts and salivating monsters most of all. The thought of being stalked by blood-dripping fangs, or glowing red eyes, especially while alone in his dark mine, was an adrenaline rush of pure terror he could endure and overcome. Hell, he could fall into an untroubled sleep afterwards. He laughed out loud when imagining the older kids at school attempting such a thing.

          His mother so despised the grotesque, bloody artwork she had gleefully burned his collection the previous summer after a report card showed him barely graduating fifth grade. However, with his stories of macabre safe in his mine, Allan no longer worried about his parents. They still flew off the handle every time the wind shifted, slapped and berated him at every opportunity, but he no longer kept anything within their reach that he was afraid to lose. He owned his own home now, and he kept his possessions in a cleaner, more organized manner than anything his folks had managed in years.

          One autumn afternoon, indistinguishable from any other day below the earth, Allan was making his way from the mine to find something to eat when a familiar sound caused him to freeze in his tracks. Standing in ice cold water, Allan could hear voices just outside Silver Streak’s collapsed entrance. What was worse, Allan recognized the young men gathered outside. Despite his eternal efforts to maintain an aura of invisibility at school, the three Steele brothers always whispered and snickered as Allan slunk by, burning cheeks concealed inside his hooded sweatshirt.

          Allan was awarded ample time to think about his reaction, his instantaneous decision, and never came to a definitive conclusion as to whether he would have handled it any different if given another chance. For the first time in his life, Allan truly felt alive in his fortress of darkness, and it was a sensation he had to preserve. The mine was his and his alone. Best case scenarios still involved the young men claiming the mine for their own and looting it of all his treasures. He refused to think about worst case scenarios that would, no doubt, come naturally to these hateful savages. If they couldn’t control their naturally vicious tendencies within the “safe” environment of school, Allan could only imagine what humiliation he would be forced to endure in the sanctity of his own house.

          Just as a pair of hands thrust inside to pull a scoopful of dirt away from the opening, Allan reached the sideways support beam, precariously lodged above the remnants of shaft entrance. The young boy had noticed the shifty looking wedge upon his first departure from Silver Streak and always gave it a wide berth. Even gently sliding through the gap on his belly caused slight tremors and sprinkles of dirt from the loose wedge above.

          As the noise and dust settled, Allan breathlessly wondered if anyone might have seen his lantern light before the tunnel collapsed. He imagined his parents being informed of his whereabouts and heard their smoke ravaged voices seeping through the wall of rock, promising punishments for such a pathetic attention grab. Allan smiled in the dim light of his familiar stone hallway. Nobody was going to violate his castle. If his dead-eyed father had imparted any wisdom from the collapsed springs of his moth eaten throne, it was that men had to defend their freedom. They had to be willing to sacrifice. Once again, Allan could see and hear nothing of the outside world. He was alone with the patiently waiting darkness. And something about that idea made him happy.

Between Stars

     Lying face down with legs splayed wide, I press my belly flat against the cold, rocky trail. With chin tucked to sternum, my head is cocked sideways; face buried in one armpit. I can practically taste the overpowering reek of sweat, blood, and fear. My fingers are interwoven, clenched protectively behind my neck. I am afraid to move… to make a sound. Despite my efforts to calm down, my ragged breathing echoes like thunder in my ears. It has to hear me. The creature has to notice my slumped form rise and fall, however slightly, with each breath.

     I hear nothing. The sounds of the forest seem to fade with the dying light of day. Maybe the beast has moved on... for real this time. There is no way to be certain. I’d rather not risk a repeat performance of the last time I thought it was safe to move. During the second attack, I had sustained real injuries; the moment my dire situation had become exponentially problematic. A six day shift of permit checking, answering questions, and trail maintenance had started just yesterday, and like a bad employee, I was walking an overgrown, long re-routed trail where select few still travel.

     With my face protected, I can see but a sliver of light between my arm and the ground, offering a narrow view of dry pine needles and trail’s edge just behind me. For all I know, the animal is hovering above me, saliva dripping on my backpack, waiting for a noticeable sign of life. Squinting for clues within my limited field of vision, I shudder involuntarily upon noticing a bloody mass inches from the bottom of my torn pant leg. I swallow a surge of panic as my already fragile mental capacities insist I must be staring at my own severed foot. Thankfully, the small portion of reasonable thinking still holding sway inside my skull, heads off the complete mental meltdown by looking past the grisly blood to what is clearly just my hiking boot. The mental reassurance nearly leads to a bray of insane laughter.

     Then again, I can’t see my leg below the knee, not without moving it and risking a third assault; maybe my foot is still inside the boot. Before I can stop myself, the absurd notion causes me to twitch the big toe for affirmation and a white hot wave of sheer agony pulsates from the area. The foot must still be attached. My once glorious, calloused appendage, half responsible for a million miles of covered trail, may look like a chew toy, but I can still feel it.

     “You idiot,” I think to myself. “You know better.”

     I hear the voice of another inside my head delivering the chastising message, striking me as odd as anything else I had experienced this evening. It is the quiet, comforting voice of a fellow ranger; a subtle, confident sound that had appealed to me since I first heard her speak. I can’t stop the corners of my mouth from curling into a slight grin. Here I am, possibly one wrong twitch from dying and I find myself thinking about a girl I barely know? Or, maybe the idea of companionship just burns brightest when faced with the possibility of dying alone.

     I know that to be bullshit though. Might as well be honest with myself. In recent weeks, I had been thinking about the raven haired ranger more and more, despite having never experienced much more than a passing conversation. I have always been shy around beautiful woman and she is certainly that. Below the dark eyes and high cheek bones I can picture so vividly, her lecturing lips turn to a gentle smile, “I can hear what you’d say about a tourist in the same situation. Serves you right.”

     She is correct. The trail has been closed for the last three seasons to backcountry visitors and park employees alike due to fire damage and the potential for mud slides in the narrower, steeper reaches of the canyon. Like veterans of any endeavor though, I feel there are rules that once understood, you can break, just so long as you stay true to the fundamental principles. I know the risks, but I also understand the terrain. Mudslides are of little concern at the moment. Of course, sometimes the confidence blows up in your face and you remember why the rules were established in the first place. I also know full well that dusk is primetime predator activity as the hunters look to ambush prey migrating to water.

     Despite the heart wrenching terror I experienced at the initial instant of the assault, and the fact I could be slowly bleeding to death through one foot, for some vain reason, the injury most concerning me is one of pride. I almost wish my unknown assailant would finish the job and spare me the mocking hell from every green horn and grizzled ranger in the park. What will Jaime make of the whole deal? It had been over sixty years since the last violent encounter between a park attraction and employee; my little misadventure is going to give the locals something to talk about.

     Despite ten years with the National Park Service, a lifetime of outdoor experience, and being mauled by the damn thing, I am still not certain what manner of beasty has me pinned. There are few options, but of the choices, I can only guess. One second I was picking my way across the poorly maintained shortcut, the next, I was thrown onto my face and driven into the earth by a writhing mass of muscle, hair, and animal breath. Beneath the considerable weight of my thrashing assailant and 50 pounds of hiking equipment, I could barely move as the creature ripped at my backpack with enough force to lift and shake my body.

     I had instinctively tucked my head while protecting the back of my neck with interlocked hands and let the animal tear at the dense pack loaded with clothes, food, and gear. The attack was brief, but every second felt like a lifetime awaiting the searing certainty of tearing flesh, breaking bone, and unimaginable pain. That moment never came, and as quickly as it had overtaken me, the weight lifted and the violent shaking ceased. The animal was gone and I was left paralyzed in disbelief with the lengthening shadows of dusk. I was eerily aware that neither the creature, nor I, had made any sound during the struggle.

     After the first attack, I laid there in silence, absolutely frozen for what felt an eternity. It was probably closer to ten minutes that I spent listening for any sound that might betray the animal’s location. I heard nothing and in that time, as my breathing slowed, and my scattered wits reunited, I began to apply logic to the situation. Although I realized my thought process was probably more a defensive reaction to prevent panic, I was all too eager to welcome the Boy Scout’s attempts to silence the shrieking banshee in my head.

     Most animal attacks are motivated by a protective instinct, I reminded myself, not a predatory one. Cougars and bears protecting their young, or a kill, or even when surprised at close range, might react violently, but humans hunted in the act of predation are rare. Statistics suggest that whatever attacked me had done so because it had been startled by my sudden arrival, or because it was guarding something. Either way, the animal probably didn’t wish me any personal harm; it just wanted me gone.

     Had the creature really wanted to eat me, it would have made more of an effort. Or… it figures I had sustained enough damage to let me bleed out and will return later for a more relaxing meal. With the exception of a pocketknife and a canister of bear spray pinned beneath my body, the only tool I carry that could be considered a weapon is an old oak-handled Pulaski I bought with my first pay check as a National Park employee. The dual headed instrument consists of a trenching spade and a honed axe blade. I dropped it when the animal had first propelled me forward and have no idea where my favorite tool now lay in proportion to my body.

     The sun dropped behind the western ridgeline as I finished composing myself from the first attack. I had to try something. I sensed the shadows grow thicker and felt a light breeze caress the bare flesh of my exposed shin where the pant leg pulled up when I had been unceremoniously dumped on my face. I imagined the concerned eyes of my family looking down from the darkening sky above. Using their presence as inspiration, I had jumped to my feet, both hands held rigidly out in front like some kind of half-ass karate stance while looking around frantically for my Pulaski. I remember spying it about six feet off to one side and having just enough time for a confident sneer to hit my lips before the creature rammed into my back once again, this time knocking the air from lungs.

     Silent as night, the animal again made no sound as it plowed me back onto the rocky ground, scraping my forehead across a jagged stone. I tried to fight back at first, but didn’t possess the leverage or upper body strength to lift the writhing weight from my shoulders long enough to reach my knife or bear spray. I felt a muscle or tendon stretch in my lower back from the strain. As the accompanying pain streaked through my torso, I felt the bulk of the creature’s weight shift from my shoulders to midsection as the animal spun around on top of me. My flailing boot connected with something solid and that’s when the creature went to work on my foot.

     Every instinct, notion, or intention of fighting back evaporated the second I felt those knife blades sink into my calf followed by incredible pressure and pain. It wasn’t the calculated decision to play dead that I’d been taught in basic outdoor survival, it was simply the unbearable agony of my lower leg being feed into a meat grinder totally paralyzing my body. Again, the violent shaking ceased, and the blades retracted from my flesh. Mercifully, the animal had stopped, but this time I was left not only wondering where my attacker had gone, but also knowing I had been seriously injured and not in a position to do anything about it.

     Adding another level of uncertainty to my predicament, I now face the imminent nightfall following my sunset attack. The temperature is about to plummet and I am afraid to grab the sleeping bag or tent in arm’s reach. I also need to reach the first aid kit and play doctor; bite wounds have a tendency to get infected even when treated. I feel the overbearing sense of panic returning and this time, my rational brain is too strung-out to fight it off. If I move, I could die in a horribly painful manner. If I don’t move, I could die… probably slowly and even more painfully. A slight shiver begins to take hold and I feel suddenly exhausted. At least some of the pain seems to be receding with the warmth of my body.

     “At this rate I’ll be able to walk by midnight,” I whisper in what faintly reminds me of a drunken slur.

     In the darkest recess of my mind, I hear a faint siren, and my vision turns red, like a blood colored lens has been placed across my vision. My eyes snap open. The forest has been swallowed by nightfall, and a remaining purple glow in the western sky is all that remains of the day. Did I fall asleep? How long were my eyes closed? A fresh wave of screaming pain tears up my leg and like lightning, penetrates all the way into my abdomen. The agony brings my senses back into focus. Something is wrong, I can feel it. I sense the presence of something living… and can almost feel the footsteps of something large reverberating through the earth beneath my cheek. I am cold but sweating, possibly feverish, and again it is Jaime’s voice I hear echoing through a mental landscape one breath from tearing itself apart.

     “Bill, are you out there?” Her voice. So real. So close.

    “Way out there,” I whisper. My feeble voice sounds surprisingly loud and I flinch before wondering why I am so jumpy. Something about playing hide and seek with someone? The logic is reasonable, but doesn’t ring true. My brain is fuzzy. I can’t concentrate with this layer of fog swirling around my head. Again, I feel a footstep, or did I hear it this time… and the sound of metal clanking?

     “William!” Again her voice. This time loud and clear echoing down the valley.

     “Jaime?” I hear myself asking from a thousand miles away. I lift my face from where it has been buried, despite my instincts screaming to hold still. Standing above me, silhouetted against a violet sky with the evening’s first stars already glowing, is a slender, long haired figure leading a white horse by the reins. The person is wearing a wide brimmed hat that strikes me as comically familiar.

     “Bill! Jesus, Bill. What the hell happened?”

      I raise myself on one elbow, staring at the talking apparition in disbelief. A dirty, yellow light emanating from its hand pours over me, causing me to squint and feebly shield my eyes. I feel a moment of clarity wash over me; some kind of hope daring me to trust this mirage.

     “Princess Charming,” I stammer, “come to rescue… the dragon bit my leg.”

     “Something did more than bite you,” Jaime says kneeling down, bringing her angular face out of shadows and into the dim light. “I saw it tear out of here as I arrived. Didn’t get a good look but it was big.”

     Jaime touches my face with one cool hand, brushing my sandy blond hair out of my eyes. Even her cold fingers interject warmth into my body. I feel my thoughts begin to gel. She is real. I don’t know how or why she is here, but the woman commanding my daily thoughts is kneeling before me in the flesh.

     “How?” is all I can manage. “How…”

     Letting her index finger linger on my cheek, she says, “Had the night off… and wanted to talk to you about something. Rode Mr. Legs out to where you were supposed to be camped tonight and when I realized you weren’t coming, figured you crashed somewhere along the shortcut. I overheard you talking about this trail last year and use it myself. I know you like to buck the system, but I didn’t expect to find you wrestling the wildlife.”

     “Don’t tell the others…” I say with a weak grin.

     Jaime smiles, her faces lighting up with natural beauty. “Well, I have to get you back right now. Your leg is a mess, but you’ll live. Don’t worry, we’ll think of something. Besides, nobody is looking for us. I didn’t exactly tell anyone I was going out to find you for my night off. Might have raised questions. I’ll think of something to cover us both… and maybe make you sound heroic. Ok?”

     “Deal,” I say while looking past my gorgeous savior to a dramatically clear view of the sparkling Milky Way. “Did you bring any whiskey… or bandages?”

Behind the War Paint

     I hand the cashier a twenty dollar bill and turn to walk out the door when a tattered missing person sign taped to the glass catches my attention. Actually, it is the eyes I notice first. His unique name sits just above that blank stare awaiting my confirmation. His 'gone missing' date is over two years old. Missing? Two years? How had I not heard anything? Why hadn’t mother said something? Probably because I never call or visit, I instantly reason with a slight flare-up of guilt. It had been three years since my father's funeral prompted my last trip to the place I was raised, three years since I had set foot in this gas station, and almost twice that long since my final conversation with the man on the poster.

     His name was Cactus Dry Creek and he belonged to the only Indian family in our small mountain town. His tan skin and long black hair stood out as much as his name was inappropriate for central Idaho’s cold, forested climate. Of course, he wasn't born in Timberline. His family moved here from Nevada, which made him a double rarity in our neck of the woods. After the sawmills closed, nobody moved to Timberline; they only moved away.

     Considered an outsider, Cactus wasn’t treated particularly well at his new high school. It wasn't outright bullying. It was more that people acted like they just couldn't see him, like they thought he might disappear if they never acknowledged his existence. Once the primary focus of my peers neglect, due to an innate understanding of math, I was all too happy for Cactus' arrival. At least at first.

     The Dry Creek family bought the house closest to ours. Although we lived a quarter mile apart, he had to pass our place on his walks to and from school. I would watch him out my living room window as he moped past our fence, gaze at his feet, and his younger sister always trailing behind. I quickly convinced myself that I couldn’t stand his dejected body language, so I went out of my way to ensure our paths crossed during the commute. Looking back on it, I wonder if my motivation was simply the fact that being replaced on the bottom rung of the school's social ladder hadn't won me any more friends. I was still as alone as Cactus.

     In any case, he was just as eager for a comrade and we quickly forged a strong friendship. One of those childhood relationships you naively assume will last forever. As I have aged, and friends have come and gone, forever has come to mean a shorter amount of time. Is it like the pessimists say? Are friendships really just a matter of convenience and circumstance? When one part is removed from the equation, do they eventually fall apart?

     Stepping outside into the gas station parking lot, I am greeted by the rich, pine fragrance I have always associated with my hometown. I may have been all too eager to escape this dead-end settlement, but I never discovered another setting possessing Timberline’s access to a wild world of pristine forest and crystal clear streams. Taking in a combination of familiar sights and subtle changes, I drive my tiny hybrid down Main Street where oxidized Chevy and Ford trucks line the strip. The road leads me past a small school building, and again, I find myself sifting through memories of my old friend.

      Like Cactus, I was tall and lanky, coordinated in ways that weren't altogether graceful, and we found a common bond playing basketball. There weren't enough kids in our school to fund team sports, but if there had been, Cactus and I would have been starters on the hardwood. In addition to all the time spent playing on the town park's crumbling court, we also spent countless hours watching games at his house. I remember vivid images of Magic Johnson and Larry Bird battling back and forth like I had front row seats. He had a color television and my family didn't even have a black and white.

     In those days, Cactus had bright and clear green eyes. Nothing like the dead-end stare barely recognizing me the last time we spoke, nothing like the empty expression on the missing person poster. I remember how quickly his eyes began to fade those last two years of high school. From that seemingly magically blessed moment when Cactus touched the grizzly on the playground, he became a different person. I should know, because our friendship was the first thing to die.

     I remember the bear incident more vividly than any memory I can recall. Our small school held grades one through twelve and because all the classes had their lunch hour at the same time, nearly everyone, teachers included, were milling about the playground when the first child screamed bloody murder. As one, every head in ear shot swiveled towards the commotion. As one, we were met with a terrifying sight none of us could have imagined.

     The scream belonged to a young blond girl named Tess and she was running as fast as her short legs would carry her across the baseball diamond. Loping across the grass, considerably behind the terrified child, was the largest bear any of us had ever seen. Several off the younger girls joined Tess in her panicked shrieking and chaos ensued. I recall teachers yanking children off their feet and dragging them towards the school entrance, while larger boys shoved others kids aside in their haste to reach safety. In a split second, our school succumbed to a state of sheer terror.

     Our town had its share of black bear visitors, but we knew in an instant this was something else. Fish & Game officials later confirmed what we all knew. Despite the last of its kind in Idaho having been killed a century ago, there was ursus horribilisis in the flesh, and at our school. While others fled, I stood staring at the charging grizzly in a dumb stupor. I knew full well what the animal was based on its size and hulking shoulders, but I was unable to wrap my mind around the beast’s actual presence. Then, as if to one-up my stupendous incredulousness, Cactus threw down our basketball and sprinted after the bear.

     The basketball court was off to one side and out of the giant animal’s path. Like the other kids and teachers, Cactus could have reached the school's side door, but instead he charged an intersecting route towards the bear like a man possessed. As the massive grizzly lumbered past the jungle gym area, Cactus closed the gap, made an incredibly athletic springboard jump from halfway up the slide and landed right at the bear's back feet. With his legs still churning, Cactus grabbed ahold and yanked the grizzly's stubby tail. The monstrous creature's reaction was an instantaneous spin with teeth bared, but Cactus had never stopped moving. The tall Indian boy was already ten yards past the bear and moving faster than I had ever seen another human run.

     Now, a grizzly can outrun a horse over short distances, and although this one didn't give chase, I am not convinced it would have caught Cactus that day. The bear, after spinning about and seeing Cactus fly by, actually sat down for a second, as if it were protecting its tail from getting pulled again. Along with the rest of us, the grizzly watched in disbelief as the young man cleared the baseball diamond and sprinted into the bordering forest beyond.

     By then, I was the only person left standing in the schoolyard and I had never moved an inch. The rest of the teachers and students were just mouth-agape, wide-staring eyes barely visible from the windows and doorway. Had we really just seen that? First a grizzly where there couldn't be one, and then the unimaginable stunt Cactus pulled. None of it seemed possible. A second later the stunned bear was back on all fours and running its initial route past the side of our school. Moving in opposite directions, both animal and boy were quickly lost from sight.

     Lost in thought on my drive through Timberline, I almost fail to notice I am passing the old Dry Creek cabin. As of my last visit, I saw their familiar vehicles still parked outside and I was tempted to stop by. They would have loved a quick visit, but rather than face the momentary awkwardness of seeing someone for the first time in ages, I have always been one to let a stale relationship disintegrate into dust. This time, there are no cars in the driveway and the windows of the quaint A Frame are boarded over. A rusted For Sale sign sits half fallen over in the weed infested front yard. For all I knew of their whereabouts, the rest of the Dry Creek family had gone missing along with their son.

     I was the first to look for Cactus that fateful day all those years ago, and found him a quarter-mile into the dense forest, sitting at the base of a granite boulder, pale-faced, shaking, and breathless. His eyes were wide with fear and I noticed a tear had recently streamed down one of his cheeks. Cactus recoiled at the sound of my approaching footsteps before realizing it was me.

     “What the hell was that, man?” I demanded. “You could have been killed. You should have been killed!”

     Cactus snorted a quick hysterical laugh and a glob of snot burst from his nose. He ran both hands through his thick, black hair, pressing his skull tightly as if trying to keeps his brain from exploding. He looked at me and his tense shoulders finally collapsed in what looked like total, unexpected relief. My friend then recounted what happened and it was the only time I ever heard the tale told exactly so. From that point on, details quickly changed, heroics were amplified, and the legend of Cactus Dry Creek grew beyond control.

     Just a minute before everyone heard the first blood-curdling scream, Cactus had seen his sister on the jungle gym swing. When the Grizzly appeared and was heading in that direction, helping his sister was his only instinct, his only choice. It wasn't until he was in mid-air, leaping off the slide that Cactus noticed the empty swing still swaying as if recently abandoned. What he didn't know was that a second after her brother had last noticed her whereabouts, she had jumped from the swing and ran towards the drinking fountain. After the bear had been spotted, she was amongst the first children safely inside.

     “I saw that thing heading straight for Skye... or where I thought she was, and I just reacted. I was trying to distract it.” A few minutes later, after his crazy round eyes had relaxed and we could hear the distant voices of our teacher closing in, Cactus revealed another truth, another angle on the story I never heard again. “I don't think that bear was after anyone,” he said. “Honestly, it looked spooked to have found itself around so many people and was just trying to get out of there.”

     “And the tail pull? Are you insane? I can't even believe I'm talking to you right now!”

     “I almost ate dirt on my landing,” he replied sheepishly. “My feet got tangled for split second and I had to grab something.”

     Cactus' life changed instantly and dramatically after touching the grizzly. He was the closest thing to a celebrity Timberline had ever seen. Turns out, it was a tagged bear out of the Glacier Park area in Montana. For some reason, the big beast had abandoned his turf and wandered over three hundred miles from home. The day following the incident, Fish & Game Officials had the young Indian boy pose next to the slumped body of the giant bear. Cactus' fierce pose, standing with one foot atop the dead animal's shoulder, was circulated widely in the northwest, a brief write-up even appearing in National Geographic Magazine.

     He allowed the legend of the grizzly to take on a life of its own and people were all too happy to take the tale and run. By never sharing what he told me, the townsfolk chose to believe that he had somehow tapped into the spiritual powers his Native American ancestors allowing him to perform miracles of courage and wonder. He became an overnight shaman, a mystical man in the whitest community imaginable. People suggested incredulous scenarios, and Cactus didn't refute them. Before long the bear was twice its actual size, probably rabid, and only due to his brave confrontation with the animal were dozens of children spared a certain, bloody death.

     His new found stardom included the attention of our school's attractive females as well as the admiration of Timberline's rough and tumble crowd of young men. Most of them the sons of loggers, these boys fought hard and drank even harder before having even graduated high school. Cactus became a sort of cultish figure head to our town's adolescence because he would attempt any proposed dare, no matter how risky, or ridiculous. People assumed that anyone man enough to tug the tail of a grizzly was brave enough to face any danger.

     I was probably the only one who knew Cactus couldn't swim when he agreed to jump 80 feet from the rail road bridge into Timberline River. The water below the drop wasn't particularly deep and the current was swift, but I never saw Cactus bat an eye when the challenge was presented at school. I overheard people talking about it later, saying he calmly bobbed to the surface and seemingly let the current take him downstream and out of sight.

     Whatever the task, Cactus was up for it. From exploring half-collapsed mine shafts, to chasing a wolf pack away from an elk kill in his bare feet, the young man seemed born without fear. He never bragged about his exploits, or challenged anyone to replicate his feats; Cactus just seemed to go through the motions with an expressionless visage and let everyone else get caught up in the excitement. Like a magician, he'd perform a stunt, vanish from sight, and then reappear after his audience began to worry that something bad must have happened.

     Months after the bear incident, I noticed a particular dullness overtaking his once bright eyes. The attentive young man I had known quickly took on a thousand-mile-stare where he could dutifully engage someone in minimal conversation, but his focus seemed absolutely elsewhere. As time went on, his face barely registered any emotion at all, matching his reptile like gaze. When we graduated a short time later, I realized it had been a couple months since I had seen him share so much as a passing nod in the school hallway.

     As I park my hybrid in front of the house where I was born and raised, I realize it is the location where I had my last, brief conversation with Cactus. I had been loading my old hatchback with the clothes and supplies I would need for my first year of college. The used vehicle was a graduation gift from my parents. Cactus was ambling past my driveway, again staring at his feet, when he noticed me tying luggage to the top of my car. He stopped and looked at me with his head cocked sideways as if trying to remember something. I was surprised at how gaunt and pale his flesh had become, his dull eyes sunk deep in the cavernous sockets.

     “Cactus?” You okay, buddy?” I remember feeling awkward about calling him that as we hadn't been friends in some time. It felt pathetic to me at that moment, like I was clinging to something long gone. He looked up at me with that same empty look I had come to expect, almost as if seeing me for the first time. His long, slow sigh was barely audible.

     “One of these days, I'm gonna keep runnin',” he said. “Keep runnin' and never look back. I don’t want to know if anyone is watching anymore.”

     My young friend, looking impossibly aged, walked off after that cryptic message and I let him go without a word. I didn't know what he meant. I didn't know what to say. At that point, I'm not sure how much I even cared. His life, his story, was in a place I was leaving behind, and I knew I would never again call this small town home. My excitement about moving to the big city and starting college took precedent over anything happening in the lives of others.

     Climbing the wooden steps to my mother's cabin, I stop and look back at the base of the driveway where an old friend and I had shared our last, awkward exchange. I suddenly wish I could relive that moment, but what would I have said? What would I have done different? I hear his last, monotone words once again and picture his face on the missing person sign. Maybe Cactus was trying to tell me something that day, something he knew had to happen in order to preserve his own life. Maybe he did need to keep running and never look back at the place and the people who saddled him with so many expectations. Maybe he was letting me know that he too needed a fresh start.

     I picture him sprinting through the forest as wild-eyed as he was the day he touched the bear. Only, in my mind, there is joy on his face and an endless clarity to his vision. A sensation defying all logic and reason leaves me feeling as if Cactus is still out there running through the dark and wild woods. Except now, he isn't running towards or away from anything, he isn't running for an audience, Cactus is simply running to feel the wind on his face, to feel his heart pound in his chest, to ensure that he is still alive, and more importantly, living for himself.