“Come ’ere!” I heard one of them call entreatingly, as if to an animal. “Come ’ere!”

Were they speaking to me? I was too far away to tell.

“Hello?” I called, wanting to make sure they were real. Some of them looked like they were carrying camera equipment, but two of them looked like they were holding weapons. I froze.

Upon seeing me they also paused, and we looked at each other.

“Hello!” a male voice said, in a tone I took to mean he was the leader. “We didn’t mean to scare you.” He came toward me, hand outstretched.

Did he want me to shake it?

“Is that your dog?” he asked.

When I didn’t answer, he gestured behind him. I thought I saw a white tail amid the brown, dead brush. It wagged and disappeared.

I stared after it, willing it to come back.

The man shrugged at my silence, bravely moving onward. “My name is ——” and he murmured a name and the name of a film company I don’t remember, have blocked out. “We’re just here to take some pics and video, if that’s okay?”

I didn’t know what to say. I stood staring for a few more seconds. I had forgotten how large people were, how much space they took up. “Go away,” I said finally. I felt weakened, drained. “You’re trespassing.”

Then, feeling inspired, I said, more forcefully, “Trespassers will be shot.”

He kept trying to introduce himself. His tone was condescending. Each sentence involved more and more soothing words, as if he were talking down a spooked horse, and he moved closer, his hand again stretching out toward me. He was finally standing within a few feet of me. I resisted the urge to step backward, to run away.

Instead, I swiped at his hand. I raised my voice. “Go away. I have a gun. I’ll shoot!”

Instantly his demeanor changed. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Calm down, lady. We’re leaving,” he said, and turned away. He sounded offended. Most of the group were already hustling into the forest when he turned back. “Please, can we get some pictures? I can give you credit.”

Something inside me reared up. It was like old times. Another male face came to mind—what was his name, Patrick? He, too, had wanted something from me.

“How did you find this place?” I demanded. “Have you been here before?” I walked toward the stranger, my anger suppressing my fear. When I came close I could see he was much younger than me, and fairly small-statured. I had a good three inches on him.

“No, ma’am,” he said. And he looked me up and down in a way that felt physical.

For the first time in several years, I saw myself through an outsider’s eyes. A forty-something woman, dressed in kneesocks and tight shorts. A sporty crop top spilling flesh, in March. Bleached and dyed hair, curled haphazardly, and heavy makeup.

I was no Cindy. I was dumpy Bonnie Lincoln trying to be Cindy. That’s all I was to him, anyway, and who the hell was he? But my mental attempt to shrink his judgment from mattering to me didn’t work.