Song: “Meet Me in the Woods” by Lord Huron
Collin looked over his shoulder at the satchel-clutching young man—Preston, he’d said his name was. Or maybe it was Vincent? Unclear.
As they walked, Preston/Vincent held his leather bag against his abdomen as if he expected it to staunch a gushing wound. He wasn’t bleeding yet, though, so he just looked silly, childish. He didn’t need to worry so much about his bag.
The forest received them with just one demand: tread carefully. She was finicky that way, as if she’d just put down new rugs.
A knotted root snagged the young man’s toe, and he stumbled forward. Swooping in at the last possible second, Collin caught his arm. When their eyes met, Collin flashed a dazzling smile that brought red to the young man’s cheeks. A beat passed. Preston/Vincent shook himself free.
Collin’s flashlight soon became their only light. The sun and forest had reached an agreement years ago—a “mine and yours” sort of thing that barred any sunlight in these parts.
As the two men ventured deeper into the woods, Preston registered Collin’s whistling and realized it had gone on for a while. Had he been whistling the entire time?
It sounded, at first, like a cheerful tune—jaunty, even. They might as well have stood at a carnival booth. But as the whistling continued, it felt less like a melody and more like a long-echoing cry. For what? Preston couldn’t tell, but as the trees became walls, he suspected it was anything but a cry for help.
He adjusted his grip on his bag, reaching deeper until his fingertips brushed the antenna of his walkie-talkie.
“So, uh, how much farther?”
Collin moved over the flat terrain as if he were climbing a hill—shoulders hunched, panting. “Not far.”
Preston squeezed the side button of the walkie-talkie. “So, what, by the river?”
Collin stopped and turned like a boulder rolling downhill. He didn’t mask his anger quick enough, and Preston caught a glimpse right before humor displaced it.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I just, uh, I really want to find my dog, you know? You’re sure he’s—”
“He’ll be there,” Collin said.
There was no dog at the river. Preston never had a dog—allergies.
Collin stopped at the riverbank. Preston waited.
After several moments, Collin turned with a funhouse grin. “It’s nothing personal, buddy.”
A knife glinted in Collin’s hand, but Preston only had eyes for the trees. Preston’s cousin, Ellis, emerged at that moment.
He must’ve sprinted to catch them, but he didn’t lose a moment even now. He stood at Collin’s back and pulled his taser with the same speed he’d whip a fastball.
“Back at you,” Preston said as Collin fell. “Well, sort of.”
“Shit, Vincent,” Ellis said, looking down at the man he’d just tased. “What has it done to you?”
Preston let his bag hang at his side as he reached for Collin/Vincent’s arms. “Let’s get him back to the graveyard before he comes ’round. We don’t have much time.”
Miles Away 