The thin line near his displaced car on the GPS was called 32, but zooming out on the digital map didn’t show any other roads nearby, just an endless expanse of green.
He eased off the gas and looked around, scolding himself.
“What exactly are you going to see?”
The road was the same narrow slash through dark trees, sloping up into another blind curve. He felt his heart begin to pound in his ears. There was nowhere to stop. Nowhere to regroup. Not even a place to turn around.
It hit him how alone he really was. What if he had a tire blowout or hit a deer? Would his phone work? Even if it did, could he describe where he was? Back in the city, there was a constant unspoken safety net of goods and services a button press away.
“It’s just a road. It’s just a road. Quit overthinking this.”
Around the next bend, he saw a pickup truck parked along the narrow berm.
A man with a floppy hat and a red beard was loading fishing tackle into the back. The truck’s taillights made his shadow a dark giant on the nearby ruddy tree line. A rod leaned against the tailgate.
Green slowed and lowered his window. He clicked on his hazard lights.
This feels like a great way to get shot.
“Excuse me.”
The man stepped toward the Prius and hunched down, his hands on his knees.
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“I’m trying to find Candle-Fly Camp? Uh, it’s on Lost Creek Road, I think.”
“I don’t know the camp, but I’ve seen the road. You’re almostthere. Around the next bend. Tiny little gravel turnoff to the right. Go slow and you’ll see the sign.”
“Thank you. I was starting to feel really lost out here.”
The man shook his head.
“Not from around here?”
“No. Just arrived.”
“Well, bud, you can’t get too lost out here. Not on the roads. A lot of these roads are loops. When in doubt, keep going. If you get dumped out in a logging camp or the way turns into somebody’s gravel driveway, turn around. Don’t run out of gas and don’t take the curves too fast. You’ll be fine.”
“Thanks again.”
“Not a problem. Drive safe.”
Green drove on and the man, Kyle Cartwright, watched him go.
Kyle had driven an hour to spend the day at an old fishing spot his father showed him thirty years earlier. He didn’t reach into holes in the bank to try and coax a catfish bite anymore. He didn’t peel up flat stones to catch crayfish in fast-food cups anymore. He couldn’t convince his daughter to take a break from the computer and keep her dad company anymore. But he came anyway. The fish weren’t biting this trip, but that wasn’t the point.
He loaded his rods into the truck bed along with his cooler and camp chair.
Something glinted in the trees.
Kyle stopped to look.
Cellphone camera?
The lost man’s headlights had trashed his night vision. He couldn’t see anything up the slope. He closed his eyes and listened. Not hikers. Hikers wouldn’t be that quiet unless they were standing still just to watch him. That was horseshit. There was nobody out there.
He needed to piss, but his truck cab was suddenly very inviting.
