“Yeah,” I replied.
“Tim, is it?”
“Yeah.”
He extended a hand to help me up. I took it. “Name’s Murray,” he said. “Ryan Murray. I teach up at the high school. Had a couple of run-ins with William and his brothers last year. Not the friendliest bunch.”
“Yeah.”
“You know this isn’t going to keep him from you forever.”
“I know.”
“You okay to make it home?” I nodded. “Okay, then. I suggest next time, you be prepared. Kids like him, there’s always going to be a next time.”
Next time, sure. He’d have to find me first.
The path stretched out before me, disappearing into the weeds. Narrow, but well-worn. I’d stood here dozens of times before, hundreds maybe, but today it looked different. Today, it looked possible.
After my run-in with Billy, I’d dragged my bike toward home, watching from behind a neighbor’s bushes until my parents left for work. I stashed the bike in the garage, piling toys and junk atop it so my parents wouldn’t see. Then I came back. To the path, and the safety it afforded. I was sure I could just melt into the forest and disappear. I had no idea how true that nearly was.
I took a breath and set out down the trail. It was scarcely wider than the shoeprints I left behind. Brambles dug at my clothes, my skin. The air was thick with dust and pollen. I pressed on, coughing.
As the canopy grew thicker overhead, the weeds began to dwindle. Eventually, they receded completely, the ground covered instead by a thick mat of leaves. It was cooler here by maybe ten degrees, and the air was fragrant with sap. Somewhere, in the distance, I could hear the trickle of running water. It was beautiful here, nothing at all like the orderly grid of suburban streets just a hundred yards away. This was something different. This was the world behind the world.
I wandered for hours, exploring every culvert and hill. I found a stream, and alongside it, an old, abandoned rail-line, so overgrown I might not have noticed it but for the broad swath of daylight that cut through the canopy above. I was dying to follow it, but the sky was tinged with red, and I knew before long it would be too dark to find my way. I headed home, resolving to come back tomorrow.
And come back I did, the next day, and the next one, and the one after that. Dealing with my parents was easy. Every morning, a different story — swimming at Ben’s, dinner at the Mercers’, kickball at the school with Steve. They were so happy I was getting out of the house they never bothered to question me, and anyway, I’d never lied to them before.
On the fourth day, I found the shack.
It was a squat, windowless structure maybe eight feet square, perched on the slope between the old train tracks and the stream. Its pitched roof was covered in moldering shingles, and its walls were boards of rough, unpainted wood, grayed with age. Sunlight shone through the gaps between them.
I approached it cautiously. There was no latch on the door, just empty space where a knob should be. I touched the door and it swung inward on its hinge. I stepped inside. The sudden darkness was a shock after the glaring afternoon sun, and it took my eyes a moment to adjust. Eventually, shapes emerged from the darkness.
Along the far wall was a cot, atop which were a host of ratty, threadbare blankets, all folded and stacked in perfect squares. A lantern sat unlit beside it. Beside me, just inside the door, was a set of dishes, chipped and yellowed and arranged along the wall in order according to size. A large aluminum pot hung on a nail above them. In the corner was a stack of newspapers, desiccated and brown. There must have been a thousand of them. I took one off the top. It was a Washington Post, dated seven years ago.
“I don’t remember havin’ no boy.”
The voice was like a blade against a whetstone. I wheeled around, dropping the paper. Silhouetted in the doorway was a man, near as wide as the door itself. His hair was an unruly tangle of salt and pepper, falling to his shoulders in accidental dreadlocks and framing his likewise-bearded face. Despite the heat, he wore a thick coat and heavy canvas pants. In one hand, he held a knife.
He clambered into the shack. I retreated, pressing myself tight to the far wall. “An’ if I did,” he continued, snatching the newspaper from the floor and returning it to its stack, “I imagine I’da taught him better than to mess with my things.”
“I–I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t think anybody actually lived — I mean, I thought this place was abandoned.”
He sized me up, his face inches from mine. His skin was dark as coffee, his features disappearing in the gloom. “Yeah, I expect that’s true,” he said. He turned and headed for the door, snatching the pot from its nail. “I got lunch on if you’re hungry.”
He left the shack and disappeared from view. I hesitated, unsure. After a moment, I followed.
He was around the side of the shack, tending to a small campfire. Strung up beside him were a half-dozen catfish. As I approached, he took one down and sliced it open. He dug out the innards with a flick of his knife, wiped the blade on the thigh of his pants, and then set about filleting the fish.
“You eatin’?” he asked.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Suit yourself,” he said. The fillets hissed as they hit the pan. “You got a name?”
“Tim,” I replied.
“Take a seat, Tim. Name’s Isaac. Don’t get many visitors around here. Makes you special, I guess.”
I sat down, the campfire between us. Isaac tended to his lunch. By the afternoon light, I saw his jacket was a faded green, all holes and frayed seams, with a V of darker green at the shoulder.
“Were you in the army?” I asked.
“I think so sometimes,” he replied. “Other times, I ain’t so sure. Got these memories kickin’ around. Places, names, a coupla faces. Only I ain’t sure if they’re mine, or if I picked ‘em up by mistake.”
“I’m sorry I touched your stuff.”
“Didn’t take nothin’, did you?” he asked.
“No,” I replied.
“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, right?”
“No.”
He smiled. “Then me an’ you are just fine.”
“How long have you been out here?” I asked.
“Awhile,” he replied. “Don’t really know how long, to own the truth. Time don’t pass the same out here. Used to be when I needed something I’d wander out into the world, but folks didn’t take too kindly to havin’ me around, so I stopped. Few years ago, I guess that was.”
“You miss anything? From the world, I mean.”
“I got everything I need right here,” he replied.
“Still,” I said, “there’s gotta be something you miss, right?”
“I ain’t had a MoonPie in a damn sight.”
I laughed.
“What about you? How come you’re runnin’ about in the woods all alone?”
“It’s complicated.”
“The world is that.”
“There’s this kid. Out there, waiting for me. I run into him, I’m dead.”
“You’re tougher than you think,” he said, removing the pot from the flames and taking a taste. “But you wanna hide from the world, it makes no nevermind to me. I’m happy for the company.”
“Come on, Isaac, where’re we going?”
“You’ll see.”
We’d been walking for half an hour, following the stream as it parted ways with the train tracks and cut upward through the hills. What had started as a shallow incline had grown steeper and more uneven with every passing step. I was sweating and thirsty and my legs were burning. Isaac seemed unfazed by the hike — he strolled along beside me, nibbling contentedly at his MoonPie until all that was left of it was a constellation of crumbs in his beard and a smile on his face.