Mostly, I didn’t think I’d die while holding my dick in the woods, hoping the little film festivals where I showed my work would have a nice memorial after they screened one of my docs. Hayes Figueiredo, thirty-three, was gunned down in the woods while at an artist fellowship. This was his final work. Roll credits.

I shook off, snapped the waistband of my shorts, and slapped on fake cockiness. “I don’t fucking think so,” I said.

The guy at the front with the tablet blinked, tipping his head. “I’m sorry—what?”

A too-tight string snapped in my chest, and I bolted into the cabin, slamming the door behind me. For fuck’s sake, why didn’t I bring my mace here? A knock on the door matched my manic heartbeat.

“Mr. Figueiredo? We’re actually here because—because we need your help.”

“With what?” I called out.

“I can’t really say,” the guy said. “We’re here to ask you to come with us, to someone who can fill you in.”

The guy leaned at the window of the cabin’s door, the glass mashing his thick black glasses to his face.

“Can I see some ID or something?”

“Uh—all I have is my badge from work. Does that work?”

“Sure.”

There was some rustling outside until the guy pressed a white card with his picture on it to the window. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, so I squinted at the badge for what I thought was a good amount of time for me not to seem gullible. His name was Yusuf Hassan. On the little picture I saw the same face as the one peeking through the window—a stubbled face with wide eyebrows. Unsmiling full lips and dark eyes that seemed focused on something just behind me. Slightly wild curly hair. I sucked in air to try to douse the fire in my blood.

“Alright. Hold on.”

I opened the door just wide enough to look outside.

Yusuf toed my worn front step, only risking eye contact for a second before glancing at the three hired guns behind him.

“I’m realizing that this looks more forceful than we intended,” he said.

“You think?”

“Sorry.”

His wavering smile eased some of the stiffness in my shoulders. I opened the door wider and stepped back into the mish-mash of my tiny cabin, strewn with notebooks and underwear, with stills from my latest doc taped to the wood walls.

“What could you possibly need my help with?” I asked. “A film?”