Jack turned down a road where, earlier that day, we’d stopped for gas. He drove slowly down the dark back route, as if looking for something, but there was nothing to see. We were in a wooded area, with the occasional sign warning us this was conservation land.

After a couple of miles, he made a three-point turn and headed back, then turned off on some kind of service road, little more than two ruts leading into the forest. The entrance was so faint, I’d missed it the first time, but Jack turned in with the confidence that said he’d already seen it.

The car rocked down the ruts, brush scraping the sides and undercarriage. He drove past the forest edge, then stopped and killed the engine.

Jack got out of the car. I followed. I didn’t ask why we were here. I was enjoying the anticipation of not knowing. I was in the mood to turn off my brain, stop trying to figure it out and just let myself be surprised.

Awaiting instructions, I stood alongside the car, listening to crickets and the distant, unmistakable yowl of coyotes. The hairs on my neck rose at the sound, eerie and mournful. I closed my eyes and drank it in with the rich smell of wet earth and dying foliage.

An ache grew in the pit of my stomach, casting me back twenty-five years to my first “away” summer camp, lying on my cot, smelling marshmallows on my fingers, thinking of hot chocolate and home. I stood there, taking in the smells and the sounds of the forest—the smells and sounds of my lodge, of home—and with that longing, the weight of the evening lifted, fluttered away on the breeze.

A sharp click of the opening trunk.

I walked back to find Jack uncovering a rifle case.

“Target practice?” I said.

“Yeah.”

I looked out, into the forest, black a mere five steps beyond the moonlit clearing. “Kind of dark, don’t you think?”

“That’s the point.” He hefted the case out. “Do much night shooting?”

“Not enough.”

A grunt, as if this should answer my question, which I suppose it did.

He handed me the flashlight. “Got your gun?”

I peeled back my jacket to show him.

“Good.”

He took out the twenty-six-ounce bottle of whiskey from the motel and passed it to me.

“I’ll carry, but I’m not partaking,” I said. “Guns and alcohol don’t mix.”

“That’s the point.”

He shut the trunk. As that light disappeared, I turned on the flashlight and cast it over the dark woods. He waved me toward them, then set out on a narrow path. A few steps, and we were in the forest. We passed a campfire pit near the edge, ringed with beer cans.