Chapter 7: Cabin Fever Dream
What the fuck is happening… Stiff as the chair I was sitting in, grabbing fistfuls of hair, and fighting back tears, “WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?” came out with a throat-tearing scream. With that, I did what any reasonable adult would do in this situation: sprinted to the bedroom and dove into the blankets.
Under the covers, safe and sound, squeezing the old pillow hard, frantically searching for something to break the silence. “Just fall asleep, Burt will be here tomorrow, just fall asleep, Burt will be here tomorrow, just fall asleep, Burt will be here tomorr….”
The self-hypnosis must have worked, or I passed out; either way, the next thing I knew, dawn was peeking through the curtains. It wasn’t bright enough to make out any color, but the outlines of furniture began to make themselves known. It took me a while to decide to get out of bed and fight the day, but Burt was coming, and whether he could fix the truck or not, I was leaving with him. I pray it’s this morning - I don't think I can wait all day. Just rent a car and get the hell out of here. I can come back later with people, clean this place out, put it on the market, and go back to normal life. Thinking how just yesterday I wanted to be here full time.
Sitting up in bed with the blankets still over my head, I watched the calm morning light brighten the room. I started to think I was overreacting. This is the first time in a long time that I’ve been alone. I’m grieving; everything's fine; this was just a horrible idea. Flopping backward with a sigh, I watched dust float from the old, squeaking mattress to the ceiling, sparkling and dancing, as one would expect before their fairy godmother appeared. How wonderful that would be.
With a few groans and creaks from my bones and joints, sounding much like the floorboards, I made my way to the kitchen. I definitely needed a cup of coffee before this day began. I had this routine down by now and knew the exact scoops I needed to recreate Dad’s masterpiece. This betraying calm tricked me into thinking I could last out here, but I couldn’t deny something was going on.
I sat down at the table and shakily reached for the notebook. It took a while to open it, and I didn’t manage it until my coffee was in front of me and a joint was lit between my fingers. The smoke and steam curled around my face like a makeshift cleansing ceremony, and eventually, the courage was there.
Hello.
The line remained. But this time, there was more. The writing was familiar but looked as if the author had trouble sitting still; it was bouncy and jittery. But it wasn’t the font that was unsettling; it was the phrase left bleeding through the paper's grain.
Little Bird.
My stomach turned. I've been called this before, before storms, before sleep, after heartbreaks, and after nightmares. And this. This was becoming the worst nightmare of all. A cold, hollow thud echoed in my chest. No. No, no, no. Whatever this was - it wasn’t him. That’s impossible. But I didn’t write this. Whatever this is isn’t grief, or bourbon, or exhaustion. Something is playing with me, and now, it’s talking to me.
My fingers curled back from the notebook like it had turned into a live wire. The air in the cabin thickened and felt alive, like the moment just before lightning strikes. Every hair on my body stood at attention. And then - a sound outside.
Gravel shifting, tires crunching, and the low, familiar rumble of a truck engine.
Burt!
Relief punched through my ribs so hard it nearly sent me to my knees. I stumbled to the window, grasping the jambs so hard I could feel my nails sinking into the soft wood.
His old Tacoma sat crooked at the bend in the fence line. The driver’s side door hung open. But Burt didn’t climb out. He didn’t call my name. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t curse at the heat or the dust.
How? It couldn’t have been more than a second from the time I heard the truck to now. Nothing moved except for the prickle crawling up my spine. Eyes scanning the woodsline, the fence, the driveway, squinting to try and see the road or under the truck.
Somewhere in the trees to the right of the truck, the leaves shifted. Quiet but deliberate. Something tall stepped between the oaks' shadows, a shape, a person. Relief burst again but died quickly. Burt stepped into view, but not quite.
His gait was wrong. Too smooth. Too… borrowed? Burt typically had an odd gait; a three-wheeler accident in his teenage years left him with quite the limp, to the point where some days he needed a cane to help him out. But this Burt walked… confidently? Arms swinging to match the wide gait.
My breath felt like someone had closed the valves to my lungs. The cabin’s walls suddenly felt too thin; the windows felt larger than before, making me feel like a billboard on the edge of the highway. I dropped to the floor beneath the windowsill, heart hammering against the wood floor, and my pulse throbbing in my ears. Sitting up carefully, I slowly lifted my head and peered over the sill.
Outside, “Burt” lifted his head toward the cabin. His chin tilting, eyebrows furrowed, and nose crinkling, slow and deliberate. Was he fucking smelling me? I dipped down again. Within seconds, a shadow fell across the room, which could only mean someone was standing on the porch.
Knuckles rapped gently, rhythmically, on the front door. “Little Bird, let me in.”
CHAPTER 8: Something borrowed.
The voice was croaky. Like when you talk for the first time in the morning. Every ounce of hope that I had when I awoke vanished. It’s only been a matter of minutes since I heard the tires crunching on the gravel, and now the sounds filling my ears were deep breathing; I could hear it out there, lungs filling to max capacity, and exhaling sharply every few seconds. A scream from inside my brain asked the only words that I could gather: WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING!
Outside, the slight rapping continued: “Little Bird, Little Bird, let me in.” It continued. My eyes darted to every corner of the room, looking for an escape, a weapon, anything. My Ruger lay on the counter to the right of the door, but all these damn windows. He or it would see me the moment I reached for it. What I found the most odd, though, was that it didn’t seem violent. It wasn't banging on the door; if it wanted to, it could easily break the glass in any of these windows and climb right in. But it wasn’t. It just lightly knocked and, between those sharp breaths, asked almost politely for me to let it in.
If I run, I have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Burt alone was twice my size, but this wasn't Burt anymore, and somehow I knew it. I slowly sat up, hunching over to stay as small as I could. I peeked up and saw him standing there, perfectly straight, arm up, ready for the next knock. I stood. Slowly. His eyes shot directly towards me the minute they noticed my movement. The eyes, the skin, definitely not Burt's. It all seemed wrong.
Burt was Irish; we joked about him being the “King of the Leprechauns”; his fiery red hair and beard could be spotted through any crowd, and his eyes were the color of a four-leaf clover - almost piercing green with streaks of yellow. But this Burt, the eyes seemed to lack any color at all, no pupil, no iris, just a milky white. It just looked at me, not blinking, not lowering its arm, just repeating. “Little Bird… Let me in.”
I took a few slow steps down the edge of the counter, sliding my hand along slowly, reaching for my gun. I had no problem shooting a threat, but what if I do that and the real Burt is left dead? It shifted its head, tilting, studying me, and then began to smile, its mouth stretching too much, its teeth sharpening to a point. “Hello, little Bird!” It said excitedly and still croaky, but nothing like the real Burts.
I curled my hand around the gun, clicking the safety off, and keeping my finger on the trigger, disregarding any gun safety I had ever learned. I began to raise the pistol, aiming for center mass, when, before either of us could react, an eruption of sound came from my right.
A violent CAW CAW CAW tore through the air from the window above the sink, wings slamming against the glass like thrown stones. Black feathers burst into the air, and talons clawed at the pane, furious and relentless—the same crow.
The thing at the door flinched. Just enough. My body reacted before my brain could catch up, and the gun bucked in my hand. The shot exploded through the closed room, glass bursting from the window as the bullet tore through the creature's chest.
Silence swallowed everything. No breathing, no voice. My ears rang as I stood frozen, gun still raised, my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest. Smoke curled lazily from the barrel. I waited for screaming, for the sound of something injured crashing through the forest, for anything—but nothing came.
I forced myself forward and slowly reached for the door handle. The lower half was solid wood, but the upper window had been blown apart, leaving jagged pieces clinging to the frame. I pushed the door open, careful not to cut myself on the remaining glass, and stepped around the shards scattered across the floor.
There was no blood. No sign of a struggle. Just clothes.
Burt's jacket, boots, jeans, socks - perfectly ordinary- lay in a loose pile at my feet. Like he’d simply stepped out of them and vanished. The gravel driveway stretched ahead of me, quiet and innocent in the morning light. My stomach dropped. “Burt?” I called, my voice barely holding together.
The crow cried again in reply, farther down the drive. I followed the sound relentlessly, barefoot on the cold gravel, gun hanging uselessly at my side. Each step felt heavier than the last. The trees pressed in close, too quiet now, as if they were watching. The gravel pressed hard into the soles of my feet, but the sensation was the only thing separating me from thinking this was a full-blown nightmare.
Near the bend in the driveway where the foliage thickened, I saw him. Burt, naked and still. He looked…deflated. Dirt muted his red hair, his freckles stark against pale skin. Deep gashes crossed his body - long and violent. Blood darkened the ground beneath him. His green eyes stared up at the sky, empty and dull. His chest sank, his sternum turning inward, as his bones and skin began to meld together into some gooey mess. I stumbled backward, the truth settling with crushing weight. Whatever had stood at my door wasn’t Burt.
I don’t know how long I stayed there clutching the bush beside me for protection. Long enough for the shock to burn off. Long enough for the sweat to start pooling. Long enough for my brain to finally sputter out a suggestion: get out. Burt's truck was beyond any repairs I could do. The windshield was spiderwebbed, caved in from the outside. The hood was bent upward from smashing into a boulder, the bed twisted at an angle with one tire bent in half and the other resting about a foot off the ground, and a rainbow of fluids pooling on the gravel.
I staggered back toward the house, panic sharpening into something useful, knowing all I had to do was get to town. Screw the stuff, I grabbed my keys from the counter with shaking hands and ran to the truck, sure it wasn’t working quite right, but good enough to at least get out of here.
My heart sank before I even reached it. The driver’s side door hung open, and wires and parts of the dash spilled out; the steering wheel was crushed, and the gas and brake pedals snapped off and lay on the floor mat. All four tires were sitting on their rims. I stood there staring at it, breath coming fast, the realization settling in with awful clarity. The thing was making sure that I couldn’t leave.
Somewhere beyond the trees, the crow cried again, loud, warning, impatient - like it’s known this whole time what I was only beginning to understand. I wasn’t safe here, but I was damn sure I wasn’t going to be trapped here.
CHAPTER 9: As the Crow Flies
Inside, everything felt smaller now. Not physically; nothing had moved, but the walls pressed in the way they do when you realize shelter is just another kind of trap. I shut the door behind me, a bit useless, since it now looked like a Dutch door. I pressed my forehead hard into my palms, breathing through the shake in my hands. GET OUT. The thought landed clean and sharp, cutting through everything else.
The crow landed on the railing outside, claws clicking against the wood. It didn’t scream this time, just watched. “I know,” I murmured. “I’m moving.” Taking a deep breath, I got to work; panic only wastes time. I dumped my pack onto the table and started to rebuild. Water first, filling my camelback, and throwing in my bottle, jerky, trail mix, and protein bars, shoving them in, first aid kit, extra gauze, knowing me. Flashlight, headlamp, batteries, fire starter, and a compass: extra socks, raincoat, bullet box, phone, wallet. The bow would be silly, way too awkward and slow.
My hands paused over the map. It was spread flat, edges curling, marked with my own notes from better trips—game trails, elevation changes, places I’d planned to scout later. I traced the line from the cabin outward, past the treeline, past the scrub and limestone. The town wasn’t marked in my mind the way it should have been.
I knew it was out there. Somewhere. Miles, maybe. But from here, surrounded by brush and rock and low trees, it might as well have been imaginary. The crow tapped the window. Once. I looked up. Its head cocked slightly, black eyes fixed on me. No panic. No urgency. Just certainty.
“You know the way,” I said quietly. The crow answered with a low gruhh and hopped along the railing, stopping near the corner of the cabin—the side that faced away from the driveway. Away from where Burt had come from. My stomach tightened. “Yeah,” I whispered. “That figures.”
I strapped on my leg holster, slid open the chamber on my Ruger, making sure one was in the chamber and the magazine was full, and secured it, double-checking the button was clasped. I grabbed the foldable knife from the counter and shoved it deep into my pocket. The truck keys sat where I’d dropped them. I didn’t touch them.
Outside, the air was already warming, that dry Texas heat that settles in early and never really leaves. The crow lifted off as soon as I stepped onto the porch, flying low—not fleeing, not circling. Leading. I locked the cabin door out of habit. The sound felt hollow, and a small chuckle escaped me at how silly the notion was.
The trail the crow chose wasn’t one I’d planned to use. It cut sideways into the brush, narrow and uneven, the kind of path animals make by moving the same way often enough, and more importantly, it moved away from the cell phone service. My boots crunched softly over limestone and dirt. Every thorn snagged at my pants like a warning.
The crow landed on a mesquite branch and waited. I caught up, scanning the trees behind me, listening. The land was too quiet—no insects, no birds besides the crow, like everything else had stepped back.
“You’ve been here a while, haven’t you?” I said under my breath. The crow stared at me almost as if it was snapping at me to hush. Then it turned and flew again. We moved like that for a while—fly, land, wait. Never far ahead. Never rushing me. It kept me moving without letting me stumble blind. I didn’t look back.
Whatever had worn Burt’s face knew the cabin. Knew the driveway. Knew the places I would have run if I hadn’t listened. I checked my holster, adjusted my shoulder straps, and followed the black wings deeper into the brush, trusting something I didn’t understand because it was the only thing that hadn’t lied to me yet.
Somewhere behind us, something else was learning too. And this time, I wasn’t going to let it catch up. I looked up, trying to place the sun against the horizon. I hadn't looked at the time all day, a while, maybe before the sun set. I knew we should be able to reach civilization before dark, but the hunger pangs in my stomach told me it was time to stop.
A few more yards down the path, a large rock face jutted from the ground, starting small and building into a bluff shelter tucked beneath the start of a maze of limestone cliffs spotted with thorny shrubs, yuccas, and a mix of small yellow blooms. The hot air and sand stung as the gusts picked up, filling my nose with the smell of chalk.
I crouched into the small cavern, slung my bag in front of me, pulled out the protein bar, and began to open it. The wings met me again, steady hopping toward me and back toward the path as if to say, “Excuse me, no time!” “Two minutes, I promise; I’m getting shaky.” A small agitated hop in reply. I inhaled the bar in three bites and shoved the wrapper back in my bag.
“Okay.” I nodded toward my guide. I expected a flurry of feathers again, bounding forward, but not this time. Frozen. “What?” came out in the smallest whisper I could manage. My guide's eyes locked on something. I followed the gaze, trying to make out the threat. The crow stiffened. Not fear exactly—more like focus. Its body angled toward the path, head tilting as if listening to something I couldn’t hear.
The air farther down the trail wavered—not close, not pressing in, just… off. A distant distortion, like heat rising from stone, but upright. Watching. The crow gave a low, warning caw and hopped closer, wings flicking once. “Stay?” I whispered. It turned its head sharply toward the bluff, then back toward me—a quick, emphatic motion. Don’t follow.
My pulse hammered. “Okay,” I breathed. “Okay. I’m not moving.” The crow launched itself into the air, flying low toward the shimmer —not aggressive, not panicked, purposeful—a scout.
I pressed myself against the rock, every muscle coiled, and waited. Seconds dragged. Then minutes, what began to feel like too long. Finally, the crow reappeared, breaking through the brush with a rush of black wings. It landed hard on a stone near the path, feathers fluffed, chest heaving.
Relief flooded me. It gave a sharp caw and hopped toward the trail, glancing back at me expectantly. I swallowed and followed. The path bent slightly, brush thinning just enough to open a line of sight ahead. That’s when I saw it. A crow lay in the dirt just off the trail.
At first, my brain refused it. There were two. That was all. Birds existed. This was Texas. It made sense. Then the one ahead of me hopped again. And didn’t look back. My steps slowed. The crow on the ground looked as if it had fallen from hundreds of feet: useless wings, feathers spread in a pile, and its body flat.
My stomach turned. I crouched, keeping my movements small, careful not to draw attention. I didn’t touch it. I didn’t need to. The logic snapped into place so cleanly it made me nauseous. Burt’s clothes. His body left behind—the way the thing wore what it took. I lifted my head slowly.
The crow ahead of me paused and turned. Its silhouette was perfect. Feathers smooth. Balanced right. But then I saw it: the eye facing me didn’t reflect the sun. It swallowed it, into its milky white abyss.
I forced my face into something neutral—confused, compliant. Took a careful step forward. “Alright,” I said quietly, as if nothing had changed. “I’m coming.” The crow hopped ahead, satisfied. I followed cautiously down the path as the brush thickened. I kept my eyes on the false guide, my body moving where it expected—until the last possible second.
I didn’t divert. I stopped. The crow hopped once more, then paused, head tilting as if waiting for me to close the distance. I didn’t. My hand slid to the grip at my thigh, slow and deliberate. No rush. No sound. The weight of the Ruger was grounding—real in a way nothing else had been since I left the cabin.
The crow turned fully toward me. Up close, the lie was harder to ignore. Its movements were right, but the timing was off—each motion just a fraction too late, like it was remembering how to be a bird instead of being one. The milky eyes fixed on me. Not curious. Expectant. The crow cawed. It wasn’t wrong, exactly. But it wasn’t right either—too flat, too careful, like it was testing a sound it had stolen.
That did it. I drew, raised, and fired in one smooth motion. The crack of the shot shattered the quiet, echoing off the limestone hard. The crow exploded backward in a burst of black feathers, hitting the dirt in a way nothing living ever should.
I didn’t look away. The body hit once. Then it shifted. Not rising, not standing. The feathers seemed to loosen, collapsing inward as if whatever had been holding them together had let go. Heat rippled above the remains, the same upright distortion peeling free and stretching, unanchored now. For half a second, the shimmer turned toward me. Two translucent ovals hovered where eyes might have been. Then it recoiled—fast this time—sliding back into the brush in a rush of warped air and bending light, leaving behind what it could no longer use, a pile of feathers.
My hands shook as I lowered the gun, breath coming too fast, chest burning. I forced myself to reload anyway. Muscle memory. Survival. “I’m sorry,” I whispered—to the bird, to the thing it never asked to become. The woods stayed quiet, but not empty. Whatever I’d shot hadn’t died. It had learned. And now it knew I wouldn’t hesitate again.
I turned off the path entirely, disappearing into the limestone and brush, choosing the roughest ground I could find. No guides. No voices. No borrowed shapes. Just me—and whatever came next.
CHAPTER 10: Herd Mentality
By the time I finally stopped, it was so dark I could hardly see my feet. The moon, still a thin sliver in its newest phase, offered about as much light as what sneaks under a closed door. I needed sleep, but could I afford it?
"Why didn't I bring that fucking map?" I said, probably too loudly. Of course I'd put all my faith in a fucking crow. I shut my eyes and tried to picture the map in my head. We started off running west... I hesitated. Town was south, but I remembered an old railroad grade that used to run through here, past the original homesteads. If I could find that, I could follow it to the old ranch road. The Olsons didn't live there year-round; a caretaker stopped in from time to time to check the fence and make sure nothing had died. It wasn't much, but it was something.
I wanted to keep going, but a dry branch cracking answered every step I took, the sound bouncing off the hard ground. I was too loud, a bumbling idiot. I tiptoed along the nearest cliff, trailing my hands over the wall and reading it like braille until I found a small inlet I could fit inside. My pack slid off, and the breeze finally reached my sweat-soaked back. I took off my shirt and draped it over a rock to dry, since heat rash was the last thing I needed, then covered myself with my raincoat. There wasn't any rain in the forecast, but it was something. I curled into the corner of the cleft, pulled the hood up for a false sense of safety, and shut my eyes, trying hard to calm my racing thoughts.
Sleep came in pieces. Somewhere in the dark, stone ground against stone, slow and heavy, like a millstone turning. I lay still with my hand wrapped around the 1911 and told myself it was the cliff cooling, a rockslide, anything. Then came a long dragging sound, wood scraping over dirt, patient, in no hurry. Then nothing. I counted my breaths until I lost count.
I opened my eyes, still not sure what had woken me. The horizon was turning a deep burgundy, a sign the sun wasn't far behind. Somehow I had managed to sleep, but the position had left my neck stiff and hard to turn. I traded my raincoat for my now-dry shirt and stretched as best I could, twisting and bending my joints, trying to wake my body up and get it ready for the day. I drank what was left in my CamelBak, refilled it from my bottle, and saved just a little to splash on my face. Without caffeine, I needed something. I inhaled another protein bar. I don't know if it was hunger, but this one actually tasted good, and I wanted another. I wanted the food rotting away in my fridge; I wanted my bed.
I gathered my things and made sure all my straps were tucked in and cinched. I checked my sidearm. It seemed pointless, but I did it anyway, then set off toward what I hoped was safety.
The sky slowly lightened, and the surrounding brush began taking shape. I had been walking for what felt like only half an hour when I had to stop and reevaluate. A rockfall had completely demolished the ravine I needed to walk through. I could go up and over, but I didn't trust myself. One wrong move and I'd have a broken ankle and be completely screwed. I followed the edge of the cliff, hoping it would work itself out, and found another blockade, another slope of loose stone exactly where I'd planned to go.
The first squirrel I’d seen since I got here was lying in the middle of the path. It took me a second to realize “lying” wasn’t right. It was flat. Not crushed. Pressed, like a flower in a book, every hair of the gray fur still in place and the tail curled into a neat question mark. No blood. No flies. I thought of the pile of feathers, of Burt’s jeans in the gravel, and the cold started in my knees. It hadn’t been chasing me. It had been trying on a smaller body, one that could run the treetops. Above me, the leaves of a single oak were moving. Nothing else was. Not a branch, not a blade of grass. I didn’t look up. I stood slowly and walked on like I hadn’t seen anything, and I felt it on the back of my neck for the next mile, patient and taking notes.
I stopped again, catching my breath and taking a drink. This time it just didn't look right. The tall junipers were bent in every direction; if this had been wind, they would all lean the same way. Cacti and boulders were tangled up with live oaks, and the drag marks in the dirt showed they had been carried in from all over. "What the hell?" I whispered, shakier than I wanted.
I walked a few steps along the makeshift wall and realized it was slowly turning me the other way. Dad told me this story once on the drive home from Del Rio, past some historical marker neither of us stopped for. Thousands of years ago, hunters built two lines of rock piles that started wide and funneled down to a cliff. They never built a wall.
"The buffalo never ran at the rocks, kiddo. They ran at the gap. You don't make them go somewhere. You just make everywhere else not worth it."
I looked at the open path ahead, easy and downhill, and my stomach went cold. Something wanted me to take it.
"NOPE."
I lost all ability to pretend and took off in the other direction, leaping over rocks and downed trees. I had absolutely no idea where I was going, but I kept pushing. Blood roared in my ears, and the air burned my lungs. I didn't care. I didn't want to die, simple as that, and as much as it hurt, I just kept going.
Behind me, stone scraped against stone, the whole slow wall shifting as it tried to follow. The oaks along the cliff shook, one after another, then stopped, like something that had lost its footing. I didn't slow down. I didn't look back. Somewhere past the next ridge, the ground flattened into two pale ruts, a dirt road, and I ran for it like it was the only real thing left in the world.
CHAPTER 11: Dirt Cheap
I don't know how long I followed the ruts. Long enough for the sun to climb and the sweat to dry into salt on my skin. Long enough for my legs to quit being legs and become something I was just dragging behind me. My palms were torn from the rocks. A thorn had opened a line across my forearm, and I'd stopped noticing the blood somewhere around the second mile. Every part of me ached, which meant every part of me was still there.
I kept the road in sight but not underfoot, walking the brush along its edge. No more easy paths. Not today.
Then I heard it.
A squeak, a slow metallic groan, over and over, patient as a rocking chair. It took me a full minute to place it, and when I did, I almost cried—a windmill. Somewhere ahead, the wind was turning a rusty windmill. A mockingbird started up in a mesquite, a dozen songs stolen from a dozen other birds, and I laughed out loud, the kind of laugh that comes out as a sob. I had never been so glad to hear a thief.
The road bent around a stand of live oaks, and there it was: a low brick ranch house, white trim, a tin roof, a dusty pickup-sized patch of bare ground out front with nothing on it. Curtains drawn. No lights, no smoke, no dog. A mailbox leaned at the end of the drive, its name long since sun-bleached into nothing.
I stood at the edge of the clearing for a good five minutes, watching. Listening. The windmill creaked. The mockingbird sang. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, but nothing else moved.
"Hello?" I called, and hated how small my voice sounded. "Hello, is anyone home?" This was Texas, and even though I didn’t think the monster- I can't believe I'm calling it that- was inside, I still didn’t want to get shot for trespassing.
Nothing. I crossed the yard with one hand resting on the 1911, out of habit at this point, climbed the porch steps, and knocked on the door. Then knocked again, harder. I tried the handle. Locked. I cupped my hands against the front window and saw a couch, a calendar on the kitchen wall, a coffee mug on the table, someone's life paused mid-sentence. Whoever lived here had just stepped out.
I should have been relieved. All I had to do was put my elbow through the glass, climb in, and find a phone.
I stood there with my fist half raised. But what would that do? No one had landlines anymore. I turned around; maybe there were neighbors, but then, around the side of the house, under a sagging lean-to, I saw it. It was a dusty green dirt bike, mud still caked on the fenders, leaning on its kickstand like it had been waiting for me. I shot off the porch and sprinted toward it. I picked the bike up off the stand and heard the empty slosh. “AGGGHHH!” I frantically turned around, rummaging through the pile of plywood, rakes, and other yard junk, when I spotted the red plastic.
I yanked the Jerry can out, pleasantly surprised by its weight. After topping off the tank, I glanced at the ignition and chuckled. The keys were still there. “Even better!” With my hands on the handlebars, I hesitated. I frisked my pockets for my wallet and pulled out a $20 bill and shoved it under the hammer on the bench, definitely not enough to cover the whole bike, but you know, a rental. I mounted the bike and turned the key. The engine hesitated, coughing out a weak sputter. “Please, please, please,” I begged, twisting the key again. It sputtered and spat, the noise shooting through the lean-to and echoing into the distance. I was certain anything within a mile had heard me. “Come on!” I gave it one last try, and the engine finally roared to life beneath me. I nearly laughed again with relief, though the sound died in my throat as I remembered exactly where I was. The bike lurched forward, the back end fishtailing in the driveway sand. Dad taught me how to ride his way to big red Husqvarna back in the day, and I shouted over the grumble of the four-stroke engine, “Thank you!!” to my dad, the bike owner, and the ether because holy shit I may actually have a chance at getting out of here. At the end of the driveway, I paused. I guess it was a 50/50 shot of which way town was, but then, through a moment of clarity, I realized the left only had one, maybe two sets of tracks, and they were clearly old; the right side, however, was full of tracks, new and old and all different sets of tires. Definitely right. But wait.. Maybe this is a trap too? “Keep it together, Bec,” I said through the rumble of the engine. “Right”
Sputtering as I shifted gears, trying to remember the summer lesson almost 20-some years ago, I pulled in the clutch and shifted up into third, twisting back the throttle as my left hand released and the bike leaped forward with ease. I took off like a bat out of hell and rode, following the thick tracks, hoping they'd eventually lead somewhere.
The ruts widened into gravel, and the gravel gave way to a cattle guard that rattled my teeth. I kept the throttle open. I didn’t have mirrors, so I looked over my shoulder instead, over and over, at the long plume of dust the bike dragged behind it.
Once, I thought I saw something keeping pace in the mesquite along the road, a ripple in the air at the edge of my eye, upright and patient. I twisted the throttle and the bike bellowed, and when I looked again the heat-shimmer had fallen behind, flickering, trying and failing to keep up with a machine it didn’t understand.
“Not today,” I said to nobody.
The gravel turned to cracked asphalt. Then a mile marker, then a faded sign for a county road, and finally, shimmering in the heat like a mirage, a low cinderblock gas station with two pumps and a Dr Pepper sign so sun-bleached it looked pink.
I coasted into the lot and killed the engine, and the quiet that came after was a different kind of quiet. A radio was playing inside, tinny country music. A truck rolled past on the highway. Somewhere, a dog barked. Every sound felt like a gift.
I fished my phone out of my pack. Four percent battery, one bar of signal, and a flood of notifications I didn’t read. I pressed Julie’s name and held my breath.
She answered on the first ring. “Bec?”
My voice cracked on the first word. “Ju Ju. I need you to come get me.”
She didn’t ask why. She didn’t say a word for a long second, and then she said, quietly, “Where are you? Stay where there are people. I’m already putting my shoes on.”
I felt relief, but I wasn’t in the clear yet, and I knew it. Not till I was in her car with the doors locked. I leaned the bike up on its stand and walked inside. The clerk's eyes told me I looked just as bad as I felt. “My goodness, child,” the clerk said as she made her way around the corner. “I’m fine, ma’am, really. Could I use your restroom?” Her eyebrow raised as she handed me the key. “It's around the corner, sug.” “Thank you,” I said, sounding out of breath, but really just not wanting to go back outside.
I hesitated at the door, scanning every inch of the parking lot and pumps for the shimmer. “Clear,” I said. “What?” the clerk asked…
“Nothing, ma’am. Just checking.” I smiled. It felt like pulling a muscle.
The bathroom was a single stall with a hand-lettered sign taped to the door: Please do not flush paper towels or feminine products. I locked it, checked the lock, then checked the frosted window over the toilet for something I couldn’t name—just sky. I let my breath out.
Then I made the mistake of looking in the mirror.
A stranger looked back. Dust caked into the creases around her eyes, a scratch across one cheekbone, hair so full of twigs it looked like she’d been nesting. The blood on my forearm had dried black. When I ran the tap, the water went brown, then pink, then clear.
“You’re stalling,” I told her, the same as I had in the hallway at Dad’s.
“Probably,” she said. “Keep scrubbing anyway.”
I scrubbed my palms with pink soap until the torn skin screamed. I dug the thorn out of my arm with the tip of my knife and wrapped the cut in gauze. I pressed a wet paper towel to the back of my neck and held it there until my pulse stopped sounding like a drum line. I pulled the twigs out of my hair, twisted it into a knot on top of my head, and tugged my shirt down over the 1911, because this was Texas, but I still didn’t want to explain it.
Back in the store, the hot dog rollers turned in their glass case, and the radio played something with a steel guitar. The clerk’s name tag said DARLENE. She was pretending very hard not to watch me.
“Ma’am, could I borrow a charger? I’ll buy whatever you want.” I set my phone on the counter. Darlene dug a tangle of cables out from under the register without a word.
“One more thing,” I said. My throat tightened. “I need to call 911. There’s been an accident at my family’s cabin.”
This time her eyebrows furrowed, but she slid the landline across the counter before I could ask.
The dispatcher’s voice was calm and slow, the kind of calm they must train for. I told her about Burt, the mechanic who had come out to fix my truck. I left out the milk-white eyes, the pile of clothes, and the thing that wore them. The truth was true as far as it went; the rest wouldn’t fit in a report. She said a deputy would go out to the cabin and that someone would call me for a statement.
I hung up and took a long, shaky breath. “My aunt’s driving up to get me,” I told Darlene. “It’s about seven hours. I don’t have anywhere to go. Can I just sit somewhere and wait?”
Darlene looked at me for a long moment, at the scratch and the gauze and the way I’d chosen the spot nearest the door. Then she came around the counter, opened the cooler, and handed me a cold Diet Coke.
“Honey, the booth by the window has the best view and the AC actually works. Sit as long as you like. My shift just started”
I sat with my back to the wall, facing the glass, the phone charging at the end of its cord. I watched the pumps, the highway, the long dusty road I’d come in on. A mockingbird was working through its repertoire on top of the Dr Pepper sign.
Seven hours. I could do seven hours. I’d done worse.
I held the cold can against my forehead, watched the road, and tried not to wonder whose songs the bird was singing.
CHAPTER 12: Out of the Woods
Darlene was sweet; she made a fresh pot of coffee and warmed up a Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwich for me. I was starving, but my stomach felt as knotted as my hair, and I couldn't get an appetite, so I picked at it while trying to process the past day's events, eventually nibbling on bits of the cheesy bacon. I could tell she wanted to ask if I was a cult runaway, a survivor of domestic violence, or just crazy. The door chimed as a regular strolled in for a pack of cigs and a candy bar, and I about jumped out of my skin, but she pretended not to notice. I nodded off for probably an hour, which was surprising, until I noticed Darlene had shut off the bright fluorescents hanging directly above me, and when I woke I noticed a pile next to me. Clean clothes, face wash, deodorant, and an orange juice. I blinked and gladly sucked down the orange juice; the cold, citrusy taste woke me up immediately. “What’s all this?” “My sister swung by; she's about your size and always keeps some extras in the car. She won't miss them.” She handed me the bathroom key, and the hesitation in my eyes stopped her. “You want me to come with you? I can lock the store quick,” She had asked, but was already leading me to the door.
Standing in front of the mirror, she picked twigs out of the back of my hair that I had missed; the human touch was comforting, and the new clothes, while smelling like stale cigarette smoke, were warm and soft. “You know, I know whose bike that is,” She said, looking not at me but at my reflection. “I was just borrowing it; I planned on leaving it here.” It sputtered out of me much like the bike when I first tried to start it. “It's fine, hun, I’m sure he won’t mind. He was a regular here, but I ain't seen much of him since his wife died. Don’t you worry about that; I’ll get it back to him.”
As the lights on the pumps clicked on and the crickets rose in their symphony, my phone rang; it was a local number. “Hello,” I answered hesitantly. “Hello, Ma’am? Miss Anderson?” “Yes?” “Yes, this is Sheriff Lambert. I'm calling about the report you made earlier today.” “Yes,” I said again, not sure if it was a question or a statement. “Yeah… uhhh,” he paused. “We didn't find anything unusual out there; the gate was locked, and it didn't seem like any sort of disturbance had taken place.” “NO,” I said louder than I wanted; the last thing I wanted was to yell at the sheriff. “What do you mean no sign? The door of the cabin is busted, there's two broken trucks out front and a dead mangled man in the driveway!” The other side of the line was blank, and Darleene looked at me from over the counter. “Well, as I said, ma’am, there was no sign of disturbance.” he paused… Where did you say you were again?” I hung up the phone as quickly as I could. Great. Now I'll end up in the looney bin, I thought.
The hours crawled by; I sipped water, picked at the snacks Darlene insisted I take, and watched the road for the creature or the ambulance the sheriff was probably trying to send. Now and then I'd hear the familiar chirp of the door as someone came or went. Each time I looked up, hoping it was Julie.
When her car finally pulled into the lot, I recognized it before I could make out her face. I was on my feet before she even shut off the engine.
Julie climbed out, and the moment she saw me, her expression changed. She hurried across the parking lot and wrapped her arms around me. “Oh, honey.” That was all it took. I buried my face against her shoulder and started crying. Not the quiet kind I had shed alone in the cabin, or the tears I swallowed while trying to keep moving. This was the kind that came from the depth of my soul; I was finally safe to fall apart, and I did.
Julie held me tightly, one hand resting against the back of my head. “It’s okay,” she whispered, “I've got you,” for a second. I flinched. What if this wasn't Julie? What if it was this thing I shot backward, keeping her at arm's distance, but her eyes, they were Dad's, and again I sobbed.
I don't know how long we stood there, long enough for Darlene to come outside and give Julie a quick explanation of what little she knew. Long enough for me to finally halt the snot running out of my nose and catch my breath.
“Thank you, Darlene,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Just glad you're alright, sug,” she said, squeezing back. Julie thanked her too, then helped me gather my things. I took one last look at the bike before climbing into the passenger seat. I wasn't sure what would happen to it, but I hoped its owner was alright. Maybe Darlene would find him. Maybe someone would get it back to him.
For now, I had somewhere else to be.
The drive home was mostly quiet. Julie asked a few questions, but she didn't push when my answers were short. I told her about Burt, the cabin, and the dispatcher's call. I didn't tell her everything. I wasn't sure I could.
She reached over and squeezed my hand.
"You don't have to figure it all out right now," she said.
I looked out the window and watched the landscape roll past.
For the first time in days, I wasn't trying to find a way out of the woods. I wasn't watching the tree line or listening for footsteps behind me. I was sitting in a car with my aunt, heading somewhere familiar.
I let myself believe that was enough.
By the time we reached Julie's house, it was sometime in the early morning. She helped me inside, made sure I had something to eat, and insisted I take a shower before doing anything else, and I didn't argue. The hot water felt like a forgotten luxury.
Afterward, I pulled on a clean pair of pajamas and wandered out to the back porch. Julie had left a blanket over the arm of the chair, and I wrapped it around myself before settling in.
The familiar yard stretched out before me: the garden beds, the old fence, the trees along the back of the property. Everything was exactly where it belonged.
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I thought about Dad.
I'd spent so much of my life thinking that as long as I had him, I would never be lost.
But I hadn't been lost out there. Not really. I'd remembered what he'd taught me. I'd trusted myself. And somehow, I'd made it home.
A faint rustle came from the yard.
I opened my eyes.
The woods had gone quiet.
Then, from somewhere beyond the garden, I heard a familiar whistle.
I stood slowly, the blanket slipping from my shoulders.
A voice followed.
"Little Bird."