Oak and pine trees loom out of the fog and I pass them, eyes sweeping the rocky trail and the undergrowth on either side. If I go too fast, I could miss him; if I go too slowly, he’ll get far enough ahead of me to double back around, or set up an ambush. Soon my tank top is soaked. I grip the CZ in one hand, my quads burning, my lungs gulping oxygen. A hundred feet or more of scrambling up the trail and I come to a small roofed pavilion with picnic tables. No sign of Finn. I press on.

The trees vanish and the granite face of the mountain spreads out on either side, the fog still close. Two figures like shadows appear ahead of me, coming down the trail. I keep my pistol by the side of my leg, ready to bring it to bear, but it’s a young couple, the man wearing a hipster beard, the woman a blonde wearing a beanie. “Hey,” the man says, raising a hand. “Did you hear gunshots?”

“Yes,” I say. “Did you see a man run this way? Mid to late forties, black hair, silver at the temples?”

Both shake their heads. They are doing their best not to stare at the pistol I’m holding by my leg.

“Keep going downhill,” I say, walking on.

The slope is steeper here, and soon a pair of metal railings materialize out of the fog, the posts inserted straight into the rock. People slowly descend the slope, shadows gripping the railings. I go up the outside of the right-hand railing, left hand grasping the metal, right hand holding the CZ. When I reach the end of the railing, the slope still continues up, the path twisting left around a stand of pines. The fog rolls past like tattered clouds, as if I’m standing on top of the world. To the left, through a break in the fog, I see far below a blanket of green trees dotted with roofs, stretching north and west to a gray horizon.

Finn explodes out from the stand of pine trees. I’m able to turn and raise the CZ before Finn collides with me and we both stagger across the rock. We struggle over the pistol, Finn grabbing my wrist while I punch and claw at him with my free hand. He reaches for my ponytail and I slam an elbow into his jaw. Then he twists my arm so it goes numb and the CZ springs from my grip, clattering on the stones and sliding off into the fog. I stomp on his instep and he grunts with pain, releasing my arm. I take three steps back to open space between us. Finn smiles and pulls a knife. I pull my own and we circle each other, feet searching for purchase on the slippery stone.