Nick

This place sucks.

I thought the woods around the farmhouse were bad, but out here, this is a whole other beast. Even the road’s full of lumps and potholes, and there’s been a stone in my shoe for the last quarter-mile that will...not...shake...out. Must’ve got under the insole.

I haven’t even been walking that long. Got out of the car when I saw the “Camp W—k-nd-r” sign, not knowing where they’d be hiding, but this place is bigger than I thought. Bigger and emptier. So far, I’ve passed a tumbledown snax stand, a basketball court with two decent-sized trees erupting from the tarmac, a sign marked “SWIMM—G H—E,” and what’s got to be Joe’s car, cleverly concealed under one of those depressing covered picnic areas. The roof’s collapsed on one side, and most of the picnic tables are in the ditch. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in years.

Worst of all, it’s getting dark. I wasn’t sure at first: the canopy’s pretty thick here, even in winter. But, no. The sky was more of a...more of a gull wing gray, half an hour ago. Now I’d call it gun gray. With a hint of blue. Like an old lady’s hair.

There’s something up ahead, though. The road’s been widening out for a while, and there’s a clearing, with a trailer and a cabin. And the creepy skeleton of a swing set. The chains are still hanging there, but the seats are gone.

They’ve got to be here: the trail doesn’t go on past the clearing. I veer off into the trees. There’s a layer of wet, rotten leaves underfoot—eugh. I don’t remember it raining recently. Maybe it never gets properly dry here, with the canopy keeping the sun off the earth.

I squidge around the edge of the clearing till I reach the trailer. There aren’t any lights on inside, but I sidle up anyway. Most of the windows are missing, the curtains hanging in water-stained shreds. I steel myself—if they’re in there, and he happens to be looking up just as I look in, there won’t be much I can do about that. But I don’t hear anything. Maybe they’re asleep.

I edge up to the nearest window, peering through at the most oblique angle possible. My precautions are wasted: there’s nothing inside. Somebody’s stripped this thing to the bones. Even the floor’s rusted through.

Got to be the cabin, then. If not there....

If not there, I’m out of ideas.

They’re there. She’s there. I can feel it. I fade back into the woods, and now it’s really getting dark. Sun sets fast this time of year. It wouldn’t take much to get lost out here, hopelessly turned around. I keep my eyes fixed on the cabin, now little more than a black heap in the gathering dusk. What are we even going to do, if she’s there? Run into the pitch-black forest and hope we don’t break our necks?

We’ll stick to the road. We’ll be fine.

Assuming we can deal with Joe—that’s another thing. I didn’t even think to bring a crowbar, or a decent-sized stick.

The swing set’s between me and the cabin. The chains are swaying in the wind—so, not totally rusted stiff. They’re just hooked on—if I could lift one off without rattling it....

Yeah. That’s what I’ve got to do. Can’t go in empty-handed.

My heart’s in my mouth as I stalk toward the swing set. I’m totally exposed. If Joe chooses this moment to open the door or peer out the window, even the dark won’t save me. Something my first-grade teacher used to say pops into my mind: quickly, quietly, and neatly! He said it every time he gave us something to do: and how do we practice our letters? Quickly, quietly, and neatly.

All right, Mr. Adams. This one’s for you. I suck in a deep breath and hold it, keep it held as I shimmy up the pole. From here, I can just reach the nearest chain.

The wind picks up a little, sighing in the trees. Now or never: this’ll be my best chance, with the rustling of the forest to cover any sound I might make.

I let out that breath and lean out into the void. I’m spread out against the last light of day, hanging off the top of the swing set like a demented ape. This is as bad as it gets. I won’t be able to pull myself back once I get that chain in my hand. I’ll have to drop down with it, hope the thump doesn’t carry.

Metal scrapes on metal as I ease the chain off its hook. I almost let go of it, but I remind myself it can’t be as loud as it sounds in my head. No one’ll hear. Quickly, quietly, and neatly. I roll the chain all the way off the hook, and drop.

My shoes thud and scrape in the dirt: clumsy landing.

The chain crumples at my feet. The jingling’s deafening—this was a terrible idea. Katie probably heard it back in Manhattan.

No time to think: I scoop the chain into my arms, stretched out to keep it from rattling. Four giant bounds take me back to the treeline. I dart behind...something green and prickly? A Christmas tree? Going to call it a fir. I dart behind a fir and wait.

Nothing happens. They’re not here—they can’t be. If they were... If they were, wouldn’t they have a light on? Or a fire? It’s cold as hell—of course they would. And someone would’ve come out when I went crashing into the dirt. A cold feeling settles around my heart. What if Joe figured I’d check his browser history and sent me on a wild goose chase? He could’ve dragged her off in the opposite direction, or anywhere, really.

Still, I have to at least check. I take my time looping one end of the chain around my knuckles, and the other over my arm. Maybe Joe is there, and he did see me, and now he’s loading his gun, setting his sights, waiting for me to venture into the clearing.

I loop all the way around, shuffling my feet to keep from stepping on anything that crackles or snaps. It’s close to full dark by the time I make it. The cabin’s a vague crouching hulk looming over me. And just my luck: when I press my face to the back window, it’s too dirty to see through. Which leaves the front. The front, where I’ve ninety-nine percent convinced myself Joe’s cozied up to the window, double-barreled shotgun poking out of it. Ready to blow me away.

I’m not sure “Well, I’ve come this far!” really covers this type of situation.

But... I have come this far.

I feel like James Bond, sliding around the cabin with my back pressed to the wall, chained fist cocked. Would it even be safe to punch someone with that? Obviously it wouldn’t be safe for them, but I mean—for me? Would I break all my knuckles? Maybe I should use the other end, wield it like a whip.

It occurs to me I haven’t been in a fistfight since junior high. And I didn’t win then.

Too late: there’s the window. I can’t see any gun poking out, but maybe it’s inside.

I flatten myself to the wall and ease forward, squinting into the dark.

Nobody’s there. Probably...maybe... Nobody’s there. I can’t see anything, but....

I inch closer.

No one’s in the window, but someone’s in the cabin. I can hear breathing that isn’t mine: heavy, labored breathing. Sleeping breathing, almost a snore.

I’ve been tiptoeing around like an asshole, and Joe’s... Yup. A glance in the window confirms it. There’s a pale, whitish lump in one corner, which resolves into two figures huddled under a duvet. One’s Joe, and he’s asleep, head thrown back, mouth open wide. The other’s Lina. And she’s looking right at me.