After grabbing the thickest branch he could find in the soft pink glow of sunrise, he ran to the nearest tree and hammered it again and again. He thought of batting practice in high school, nights in cages, swinging at buckets of balls until his hips and shoulders worked in synchronized unity.

Klock! Klock! Klock!

Andrew’s fevered pummeling echoed in the still morning air.

It took the branch snapping in half to make him stop. He stumbled backward into the car, flinging the wood into the brush. His legs and arms had gone soft.

Part of him wanted to cry, but he’d never, ever let it have its way. Not over this. He was not going to cry over his own twisted, uncontrolled thoughts. They weren’t worth shedding one tear over.

Trying to catch his breath, Andrew turned and leaned his forehead against the car’s cool roof.

He felt wasted, obliterated.

But at least the forbidden thoughts were gone.

Klock! Klock! Klock!

Those weren’t echoes.

Andrew stiffened.

What the hell was that?

“Great, now you’ve woken up the neighbors,” Andrew said, looking about the shadowy woods.

Something heavy crashed in the distance. It sounded like a medium-size tree falling down.

Or a bull moose making its way toward the house.

He did not want to be out here, exposed, if a moose was near. His legs shook, but he forced them to move. He felt relieved once he was back inside the cottage.

For some reason, he locked the door before sliding onto the floor, ear pressed against the wood, listening.

* * *

“I am so sorry,” Kate said.

“It’s no biggie. Buttons and I grabbed some beers and watched porn all night.”

Andrew was on the back porch, the door open wide, early summer air filtering into the cottage.

“I didn’t realize I was that tired.”

Buttons was in bed with her. He’d found a way to get under the covers next to her, his head on the corner of her pillow. He was awake, listening in on their conversation. She rubbed his velvety ear between her thumb and index finger.

“That’s what good mountain air will do to you,” Andrew said. He had three of his moldy paperbacks on the table. One of the first Elvis Cole detective novels by Robert Crais was at the top.

“There aren’t any mountains.”

With a sweep of his hand, he said, “Oh, they’re not far. You don’t have to see them to enjoy the benefits.”

When she lay back against the pillows, Buttons lifted his head and plopped it on her chest.

“You’re such a loon,” she said.

“By the way, your dog’s taste in porn?” Andrew gave an exaggerated shiver. “You might want to rethink having him in bed with you. That’s one subversive beagle.”

“And you’re a dope to boot.”

“But a dope who loves you.”