She seemed entirely herself again, perhaps a little tired. Perhaps it had only been the spell we were under, now ending. I said good night and headed back downhill toward the river, circling around the lodge, where people were already streaming in, ready for a drink or two and whatever uproar might follow.

I wanted to be alone, I wanted to feel again what I’d felt from the night and the silence, carry it in my hands as if in a cup. I suppose I would have wanted to write a poem, if I thought I could do any such thing.

But in a gaggle of writers, I realized, there were always some solitary brooders, and even before I got close to the river’s edge I could see at least two other figures stalking here and there, so I turned back. I thought about Aaron and wondered what he was doing right this minute, and how maybe I didn’t really want to be alone, and how very far away from him I’d gone.

I crossed the front porch of the lodge, where people had taken their drinks to lean against the railings and talk. Inside, Tony Presto was presiding over the bar. One of the nature writers was busy building a small, careful fire in the fireplace. Somebody had set up a Bluetooth speaker and was running through their playlist, which leaned to ironic British 80s pop. I hoped the fan was going to be enough white noise to drown it out.

Ken Spinner came up behind me and hooked an arm around my neck. “Carla,” he said. “Carla, Carla, Carla.”

It didn’t feel like any particularly personal attention. It never did, with guys like that. There really was something disturbing about his complexion. You wanted to take a Clorox wipe to his face.

“Ken,” I said, by way of greeting. I pried his arm loose and gave him a push toward the bar. From the firewood stack, I found a length of flattened board. When I got to my room, I wedged it under the door as a stop. I turned the fan on high and fell asleep.

Into the Woods II

The next morning I was awake as soon as it was light. Gil was up not long after, and we started in cleaning up the party wreckage from the night before: beer and wine bottles, wadded paper napkins, puddles of suspect moisture, furniture that had migrated around the room: everything, Gil said, except a body behind the bar. She said she hoped the party was a good time, and that they’d better be more careful about eating granola bars on the porch unless they wanted a visit from Mr. Bear. She’d tell Tony to say something.