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Then Parker crashes out of the equipment room with a dented toolbox in both hands and grease on his cheek, announcing, “Nobody panic, but I may have lost a screwdriver inside the wall.”

Sarah doesn’t even look up when she sighs. “Again?”

The normal noise rushes back in so fast it almost feels staged.

By late afternoon, I’ve convinced myself of several things in rotation:

One, someone is messing with me.

Two, somebody knows about Jonah’s camping story and wants to scare the new ranger.

Three, I’m tired enough to connect unrelated things because the human brain is an idiot.

Four, none of that explains the dreams.

Five, I’m not thinking about the dreams.

Six, thinking about not thinking about them is still thinking about them, and I should probably go slam my head into a tree.

When I get back to the cabin after work, both bundles are still on the steps.

I stand there in my uniform, keys in hand, and look down at them. For some reason, the first one feels louder beside the second. The Labrador tea woven through it has dried at the edges, but the scent still lingers faintly if I breathe close enough. The second bundle gives off cedar and crushed fern.

I step over them again without touching them.

8

Lucas

I’m standing in the kitchen after dinner, staring out at the forest through the window above the sink, and telling myself I’m staying in tonight.

That’s the sensible thing to do; the adult thing. A man sees an impossible light in the woods one night, finds a mysterious offering on his porch the next morning, and that man stays inside, behind a locked door, and with a loaded gun.

By nine, I’m changing into hiking gear.

“You’re an idiot,” I mutter as I pull on my socks. “It’s like you’re asking to get railed against a tree by a monster.”

I pack lighter this time: radio, knife, water, headlamp, first-aid kit. No thermos, no sandwich, no plan to sit around and make myself an easy target for the local cryptid I’ve apparently decided to flirt with.

The word ‘flirt’ makes me stop, one hand on my backpack strap, and stare hard at the wall until my face cools down.

Not flirting—investigating. There’s a difference… probably.

The moon has slipped into a waning gibbous, bright enough that I leave the porch light off when I step outside. I pause beside the bundles and stare down at them, my fingers inching toward the second one. I still don’t touch it; instead, I look out at the treeline, where the path begins as a darker seam between the trunks.

“If this is some asshole with too much free time…” I trail off quietly, “you should know I’m armed, irritated, and deeply embarrassed, which is the most dangerous version of me.”

The forest waits, and I walk.

The night is gorgeous, which makes it hard to stay angry or scared. Spring has softened the cold but left enough bite in the air. The ground gives way under my boots, damp from yesterday’s rain, and the smell of the forest rises richly around me.

Pine resin. Cedar. Wet stone. Leaf mold. Ferns uncurling near the trail edges. Somewhere farther downslope, the creek works over rocks with that steady, rushing sound I’ve known since childhood.

I stand there, close my eyes, and breathe it all in.

This feels like home, and that is the most dangerous thing about it. I know how easy it is to trust what you love, only to be fucking blindsided.

“Don’t go there, Lucas,” I say, shaking off the melancholy threatening to creep into my peace, and keep walking.