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Boy, it gutted me. Every tear he cried, I cried with him as I raced us to the hospital.

Since the day our father died, I told myself I’d be the one to keep this family upright. That I’d carry the weight he left behind and make sure we didn’t break under it.

But that night, it didn’t matter what title I wore or how many times I’d sworn to protect them.

I came up short.

Boy, that failure? It’s still sitting in my chest like a stone that won’t move.

I pass under the weather-beaten sign that reads Bunky’s and spot a short man in a polo shirt, his thinning hair barely hanging on like it’s clinging for dear life. He’s standing next to an electric car that looks way too fancy for this godforsaken road. The damn thing probably wouldn’t have made it if it’d rained.

That has to be the surveyor—sticks out like a sore thumb in a town full of wildcards and worn-out souls.

I park and step out, walking over. He looks up at me, eyes wide like I’m a bear about to swat him. Sometimes I forget Maddox isn’t the only big bastard around.

I throw on what I call my “friendly sheriff” face and extend my hand—trying my best not to intimidate the guy into dropping his clipboard.

“Henry Wilder, Sheriff of Thunder Ridge,” I say, voice steady. “Dispatch mentioned someone stumbled across a campsite out here?”

The man takes my hand, barely squeezing it. “I did, uh…I mean, yes, that was me who called it in,” he stammers. His voice has a nasally edge to it, like someone fighting off a sinus infection, making it sound like every word is a struggle.

“Jeff, my name’s Jeff,” he says, speaking more to the side of my head than directly at me, his eyes darting nervously to the dense wall of pine trees surrounding us. The air is heavy with that damp, earthy smell that always hits right before nightfall, and long shadows stretch between the trunks like fingers creeping along the ground. It’s damn near dusk, the last sliver of sunlight bleeding through the treetops, casting everything in that eerie, golden glow that makes the woods feel just a little haunted. The cicadas are starting their nightly racket, and somewhere off in the distance, a branch cracks under something’s weight. Still, there isn’t anything out here—not really. But even I can admit, this place gets under your skin if you stand quiet long enough.

“Hey Jeff, no need to be nervous. It’s probably just someone squatting.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pulling it back just enough to expose the bald spot he’s desperately trying to hide under that massive comb-over. “Right, well, the family that owns this plot decided to sell after some incident. I’m not sure what happened, they were pretty vague about it.”

Probably for the best if they want to get rid of this godforsaken plot of land.

“Anyway,” he continues, “they called my office for a survey, so I drove out here to do that, and while I was at it, I stumbled across a makeshift campsite on the south side, facing the paper mill.”

“Alright, can you show me where exactly?”

Jeff’s eyes dart around clearly nervous as hell. “You're not going to write this down and call for backup?”

This guy definitely isn’t from around here, because I am pretty sure my backup is two counties over with a pocketful of one's ready to see some titties.

“Sometimes we get a few drifters that will take up residence out here, I’m sure that’s all it is.”

Jeff doesn’t look convinced, but he falls in step behind me as I head off toward the spot he described.

I never understood why anyone ever called this dreary patch of earth a campsite. It is twenty acres of swampy, uneven ground littered with broken glass, rusted-out car parts, and more snakes than sense. Half the trees are either dead or dying, gnarled like arthritic fingers clawing at the sky, and the other half leans in like they are keeping secrets.

The ground reeks of mold and old ash, and every gust of wind carries the sour tang of something rotting just out of sight. You don’t come out here to pitch a tent or roast marshmallows—you come to disappear, or to make someone else do the same.

“So, you from here?” His shaky voice comes from behind me.

“Yeah, born and raised,” I tell him as I swat at a mosquito.

He shifts, stepping over a dead oak. “So…campsite or dump?”

I snort. “I don’t recall anyone ever camping out here, more or less a hang out for rowdy teenagers.”

“Explains the beer bottles and condom wrappers I found.”

“At least they are practicing safe sex…” I chuckle trying to stifle the man’s nervous energy burning through the back of my shirt.

“R-right.”