He walked the rest of the way, anxious to come to the fork and backtrack his way home. The tree cover here was thicker, blocking most of the sun. The ground was still damp with dew and the remnants of the last storm. Rich, moldy, earthy smells assailed his senses, making him feel even more isolated and alone.

When he saw the dead bird on the trail, its innards spilling from its open beak, body flattened in the contour of a sneaker, Andrew pulled back.

He checked the bottom of his running shoe and saw what looked a lot like a spatter of blood.

Disgusted, he rubbed his sneaker along the pine needles and leaf-covered ground, hoping to wipe the blood and any bird remnants off.

“Sorry, little guy. At least I didn’t kill you.” He gave a wide berth to the bird’s body…this time.

It took five slow minutes to get to the fork, and he saw where he’d gone wrong. He normally stuck to the trail on the right. The berry bush he passed by every day was there, thick, glistening cobwebs woven between the leaves.

Part of him wanted to run the rest of the way, but his legs weren’t having any of that. His thigh muscles were twitching like an overheated motor and his calves were starting to cramp up.

It was strange, walking the trail. When he ran, he noticed very little, living inside his head. Now, he took note of a crumbling log for the first time, wildflowers growing from its rotted trunk. There was an old license plate partially buried under brittle pine needles, the yellow background faded, Vacationland in blue lettering still prominent. He’d taken Buttons out a few times, going at a sub-snail pace because Buttons was old and curious, but they’d never been out this far. Evidence of people in the woods was everywhere. He found a broken Budweiser nip bottle (when was the last time Bud made those?), a crushed, empty pack of Kool cigarettes, bottle caps, and a strip of cloth that looked to have come from a shirt.

Andrew remembered partying in the woods when he was a teen. It looked like it was no different up here. Teenage hormones and stolen beer were the calling card for woods everywhere.

What he was finding looked very, very old. The teens who’d left this stuff were most likely middle-aged now, recalling the good old days when a nip of Budweiser was all they needed to get rip-roaring drunk, the promise of copping a feel holding the same weight as winning the lottery.

He saw another dead bird, this one a robin, just on the edge of the rough path. Its tiny legs stuck straight up in the air. It wouldn’t have been worth a second glance if its head hadn’t been twisted completely around.

Maybe it died and some scavenger started poking at it.