The stillness of daybreak has been my favorite time of day for as long as I can remember. That short span of time between dark and light, when the day is slowly awakening, has always felt surreal to me. 

And quiet. So very quiet, with the exception of chirping birds and other woodland creatures. But I don’t consider that noise.

Sunbeams peek through the trees, and morning dew glistens over the mossy forest trail beneath my boots as I walk through the woods, barely making a sound. I’m not an intruder here, among the lifting fog and the faint chirping of birds—this is home. I’ve walked this path hundreds of times. 

I am daybreak and dusk. I’m no longer light or dark, but some vague, fucked-up place in the middle. 

I’m the gray area. 

Pausing, I tilt my head at the odd sound coming from my left, recognizing it as the same noise I heard out here yesterday but didn’t have time to check out. I push the hood of my sweatshirt off my head, straining to hear the sound again, but all I hear is my own breath for a full minute.

Urgh! Urrgh! 

At first, I think it’s a deer huffing, but I’ve never heard one sound like that before. It seems to be making the sound too often and too frantically. Veering off the trail, I make my way through the trees toward the sound. It could be the lost dog I’ve been trying to find for the past week, possibly hurt or caught in a trap. Dogs get lost up here in the woods all the time, usually with hikers who think their dogs would never run off chasing a squirrel and not come back when called. 

So I, Tyler Grace, the alleged small-town psycho, lure and catch the lost dogs and bring them back to their owners. Actually, that’s not true. I don’t bring them back myself. I let someone much more sociable do that part. I let them play the hero. I just like the thrill of chasing and catching things. It satisfies my inner stalker. 

Urgh! 

The tortured, haunting sound makes my neck hairs stand on end, and an uneasy feeling settles deep in my gut. As I walk deeper into the woods, the noise grows louder until it sounds as if I’m practically right on top of it, but I see nothing. 

Urgh! 

Fuck. I am on top of it. The sound is coming from somewhere beneath me. 

What the hell? 

I kneel and run my hands through the layer of dead leaves covering the ground, confused and not sure what I’m looking for until my hand catches on something hard that feels like rusted metal. I brush more of the leaves aside, and a chill settles in my bones when I realize what it is. 

Nestled into the dirt is a round wooden door. I grasp the rusty metal knob and slide a heavy wooden door to the side to reveal what may have been a well or shelter at one time. I blink and stare down into the dark hole, thinking the scene in front of me is going to disappear, but it doesn’t. 

There’s a teenaged girl down there, staring back up at me with sheer terror in her huge eyes, rocking back and forth. She’s huddled against the earth wall clutching a small white dog, and it makes that horrible sound I now recognize as the sound of a dog with its vocal chords severed. A child’s purple backpack is on the ground next to her, torn and dirty, and it reminds me of one my little sister had when she was young. It’s cool out here in the woods, especially during early fall in this part of New Hampshire, so she must be chilled to the bone down in that hole.

I yank my cell phone out the back pocket of my jeans and dial 911 relieved that, by some miracle, I have a connection up here in the middle of the woods. 

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?” 

I need help, my brain screams. I found a girl. In a hole. In the woods. 

“Hello? May I help you? Are you there?” 

Just send someone. She’s a fucking mess. 

“Are you hurt? If you’re there, please try to speak. I’m right here to help you, but I need to know where you are.” 

“Try to speak,” she says. I almost laugh. I can’t even remember the last time words came out of my mouth. And now that I have to, I can’t seem to get the words to come down from my head and past my lips. 

The girl with the tangled wild hair and her little dog continue to stare at me as I swallow hard and force my brain and mouth to get their shit together. 

It’s like riding a bike, Ty. You don’t forget how to talk. 

“A girl…in the woods,” I rasp. “A hole.” My voice is strained and unnatural, too loud or maybe too soft, much like the dog’s strangled bark. 

“There’s a girl in the woods? Is that what you’re saying?” 

“Yes.” 

“Is she hurt?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Are you hurt?” 

“No.” 

“Are you with her?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you in the hole with her?” 

“No.” 

“Do you know her name?” 

“No.” I cough into the phone. My throat is dry and raw, and I’m already exhausted from this interrogation. How hard is it to just get help? 

“What is your name, sir?” 

“I’m going to get her.” 

“Can you tell me your location?” 

My throat catches again with the struggle to make more words. “Five miles off Rock Road. Old hiking trail. On the left. Not far from the river.” 

Ending the call, I peer back down into the hole. It’s about four feet in diameter and maybe ten feet deep. I reach behind me and grab the eight-foot dog leash that’s hanging off my belt, wrap some of it around my wrist, and toss the other end into the hole. 

I nod at her, hoping she’ll understand my plan, but she gives me a leery glare and moves backward like the leash is going to bite her. 

Talk to her. “Grab it. I’ll pull you out.” 

Her mouth parts slightly, and she pulls the dog tighter, protectively, against her chest, and I realize she’s afraid I expect her to leave the dog down there. 

“Hold the dog. Grab the leash. I’ll pull you both out.” 

She stands painstakingly slowly, picks up her tattered backpack, loops her arm through it, then shuffles hesitantly toward the dangling leash. Her feet are bare, poking out from a pair of threadbare sweatpants that look about four sizes too big for her. A very thin once-white T-shirt is barely visible beneath her tangled waist-length blond hair and the furry dog she’s got in a bear hug. 

“It’s okay. I’m going to help you,” I say when her eyes dart from me to the leash then back to me again. Her teeth clamp down on her bottom lip as she grasps the leash. 

“Hold on tight,” my voice growls. “Don’t let go. I can pull you up.” 

Pulling her out of the hole is easy, and it’s not because I work out a lot. The truth is she weighs next to nothing. The words “starving,” “malnourished,” and “anorexic” spring to the forefront of my mind. I’d be surprised if she weighs ninety pounds including the dog and whatever she’s got in that backpack. With both hands, she hangs on to the leash with the dog against her chest, his paws over her shoulder as if he somehow knows he should be hanging on. Her body scrapes and bounces along the rough dirt side of the hole as I pull her up, but she doesn’t let go, not even when I pull her onto the ground next to me. 

“It’s okay,” I repeat as softly as I can, but my voice isn’t very comforting with its fucked-up, hoarse, raspy tone that I can’t change. 

She leans against me as I kneel next to her, one of her hands gripping my shirt, the other holding the dog at her side, her forehead pressed against my shoulder. I can actually feel her heartbeat, beating wildly in her chest like a hummingbird.

“Shhh… You’re going to be okay now. I promise.”

I can’t ignore what I see. Scars, some old and some new, mark her arms and the tops of her feet and, no doubt, places I can’t see. But when our eyes meet, the damage and torment I see there is far worse. Just like me. My heartbeat skips when she stares up at me, at my face, and she doesn’t recoil at what she sees. She looks right in my eyes, unwavering, and she sees me. She lets out a deep, shuddering breath that sounds like it’s been bottled up inside her for a very long time.

But the moment quickly passes, and I tense up when her entire body begins to tremble, her arms wrapping tighter around her little dog as her pale blue-gray eyes slowly slide away from mine and shift to something behind me, widening with new fear. 

I realize we’re not alone. 

I turn to see a man coming toward us, his lips set in a grim line, fists clenched at his sides. 

“No…no…no,” the girl whispers frantically behind me as I rise to my feet. “The bad man is coming.” 

He quickly closes the space between us and throws a punch at me before I have a chance to block him. His fist crashes into the side of my face. I shake my head; then I throw my body against his and take him down hard to the ground. He’s clutching an eight-inch blade in his hand. 

He came prepared. 

His eyes are dark, blank pits, and if the saying that the eyes are the windows to the soul is true, this man definitely has no soul. I can almost feel the evil radiating off of him, and his determination to win this fight. I wrestle him for the knife as he tries to sink it into my gut, knowing without a doubt that he’ll definitely kill me if I don’t get it out of his grip. 

Fighting to twist the knife out of his hand, I get on top of him, my knees pinning his shoulders down. Suddenly the girl appears, holding a large rock in her shaking hands. A scream erupts from her as she brings the rock down hard on his head. He lets out a surprised grunt, his eyes rolling back into his head, and slowly goes limp. He drops the knife, which she grabs and throws a few feet away. She’s panting and shaking from the effort, but her eyes meet mine for a second. There’s determination and strength there as she stares back at me. There is silent agreement.

The little dog makes those pitiful sounds, its whole body wriggling and wanting to attack, but it stays near its master: the girl. When I hear low moaning, I look back down at her captor. At a face I’ve never seen before with eyes that don’t deserve to see the light of day. Amazingly, the hit to the head hasn’t fazed him much, and I don’t even see any blood oozing from him. Once again, he focuses his venomous eyes on me. A strange sense of déjà vu comes over me as I grab his throat with both hands and squeeze. 

It is going to be him or me. I knew that the moment I saw him coming for the girl. He isn’t going to allow her to be taken away from him, and he isn’t going to be caught. 

I make a choice. 

I commit to it. 

I execute it. 

There’s no going back. No second thought. No momentary hesitation. 

I squeeze his throat harder as he struggles beneath me, grabbing my hands with his own, kicking his legs up. But he grows weak and I grow strong, and I win. 

The girl sobs on the ground behind me, and the dog lets out its pitiful howl, which sends a chill down my spine as years of anguish break free from the cage of my heart. It swirls up inside me like a tornado and unleashes its destruction as I choke him to death. 

I witness his last breath, hear his last gurgle, and feel him go lifeless beneath me. 

And fuck…it feels good. 

* * *

I stand and slowly back away from the well-dressed body of the man I just killed. I try to catch my breath, my heart racing from the rush of adrenaline and this sick shock coursing through me like lightning. 

I just killed someone with my hands. A total stranger that I had no beef with. He could be anyone—her father, her boyfriend, a kidnapper. I have no idea, and the fact that I don’t care is both surprising and concerning. Regardless, he tried to hurt me and I stopped him, and it’s given me a euphoric high that hasn’t subsided yet. 

I flex my sore fingers, continuing to eye him to make sure he doesn’t get up.

The sound of scurrying behind me forces me to tear my gaze off the body to find the girl running farther into the woods after the dog, who has suddenly bolted. 

“Get him!” the girl yells. 

I take off after them, afraid they’re both going to get themselves lost out here in the woods. The girl’s bare feet must be getting torn to shreds as she runs over rocks and dried dead leaves, but it doesn’t stop her from chasing after the small white dog. 

“Stop chasing him,” I yell, but I’m not sure she hears me or can make out my hoarse, choppy words. Chasing a running dog only makes it run more. If she would stop chasing him and just sit and wait, he’d most likely stop and come back to look for her. 

“Freeze!” 

The deep voice booms through the forest behind me and, for a moment, I think it’s the man I just strangled—not dead, after all. I stop in my tracks; then I glance back and realize it’s not him. 

“Get him!” the girl shrieks. 

“Put your hands up and don’t move.” Three cops have guns aimed at me as they inch closer. Their eyes are locked on me, waiting for me to either run off or pull out a weapon of my own. 

Oh, shit. They think she’s telling them to get me.

I don’t resist. I don’t try to say anything at all. I do exactly what they tell me to do, their guns still pointed at me and each officer waiting for me to make the wrong move. I slowly put my hands up over my head as two of the officers come after me and the other goes after the girl. 

I had completely forgotten about the 911 call and, honestly, I’m surprised they were able to find us. But I now notice that the whole scene is suddenly crawling with people.

Confusion shrouds my brain as I’m put in handcuffs. It hits me how this appears as I look around, at everyone’s hard glares and the accusations on their faces. I barely listen to the officer reading me my rights. They march me past the hole and the dead body that’s being covered, toward the dirt road where several police cars and an ambulance are waiting with strobing lights. Panic has caused my voice to retreat to its hiding place, where it’s only heard in my own head. 

Let me go. 

I didn’t hurt her. 

I saved her. 

Hands push me roughly into the backseat of the police car, and the door is slammed in my face before the officer walks away to talk to someone else. The girl is being carried—crying, arms and legs flailing—into the back of the ambulance by a male and female officer. We lock eyes before the doors of the ambulance are closed. 

I only wanted to save you.

Tell them I saved you.

Tell them I’m not crazy.