Page 122 of Resurrection
The road gets skinnier, the asphalt unraveling into gravel, then dirt. On one blind corner, there’s a flock of wild turkeys squatting right in the path, so I have to slow-roll past them while they glare at me like I just interrupted a board meeting.
I glance at the GPS, which is now a frozen blue dot and a pinwheel. "Very helpful," I mutter as if the phone can hear me. "How do people who live here communicate with the outside world?"
The next turn is where things get interesting. There’s a tree down across most of the lane, a fallen pine thick enough to take out a car if you aren’t paying attention. I brake, step out, and size up the scene.
The forest is dense here, the air spicy with resin. There’s no sound except my own breath and the high keening of insects. For a second, I think about just reversing and calling it, but I can see where the shoulder dips, and if I angle the vehicle just right, I might be able to skirt around it.
I’m walking the edge, trying to judge tire clearance, when I catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye.
There’s a man in the woods, standing in that weird way where you don’t move your body at all, just turn your head like an owl. He’s skinny, but not ina fit way—more like he hasn't had a regular meal in a while. He wears a ragged army jacket and jeans that might have once been blue. There’s a rifle slung loose in his arm, the barrel pointed at the dirt. He doesn’t blink.
"Hey! How are you?" I call, because what else do you say to a stranger with a gun in a national forest.
He stares at me for a second longer before shuffling closer to the tree line. I raise both hands, my fingers splayed, not in surrender but in the universal sign forno trouble.
"Hi," I try again, softer. "Sorry to bug you. I’m trying to get to the Eagle Creek Mobile Homes Community."
He says nothing but tilts his head and takes another step. He’s younger than I thought, maybe my age, maybe less. His face is pale, almost gray under the green canopy, and it’s hard to make out, but there’s something oddly familiar about him.
I keep my tone friendly, light. "You live around here?"
He nods, a single birdlike jerk.
"You know another way in?" I point to the tree.
He opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. "You’re lost," he finally says, his voice scratchy.
"I guess I am," I admit. "Phones don’t work up here." I pull out mine, shake it. "Technology, am I right?"
He doesn’t laugh. He’s not scary, just…off. Like a radio that never quite tunes to the right station.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, sudden and direct.
"One of the kids I’m chaperoning missed the talent show last night, and I wanted to check on him," I explain. "I’m Naomi," I offer, and it feels stupid as soon as I say it. But sometimes you have to be the first one to make it real.
He stares at my shoes, then back at my face. "You a teacher or something?"
I blink. "No. I’m just volunteering at the community center. Do you know Asher? Asher Stone?"
He nods, again that quick jerk. "His place is up there." He points the rifle barrel to the sky, then gestures deeper into the woods. "Other side of the hill."
For a beat, I wonder if he’s trying to get me to hike there. But then I recognize something about the way he moves, the way his eyes dart. It’s the same nervous energy I’ve seen in kids who are always on the outside looking in.
"Do you live in the park too?" I try, hoping he’ll elaborate.
He shakes his head. "I got my own place."
I take a step forward to close a bit of distance. My mind is churning, working overtime. I'm certain I’ve seen this man before, but I can’t remember where.
"I swear we’ve met," I say with a smile.
"We went to high school together," he blurts out.
Wait…It hits me then. He’s right. We did go to high school together.
"Are you Decker?" I ask.
He looks surprised for a second, then wary. "Yeah."
