We step out and I lock the doors, Bernie Kosar running circles around my legs. There’s only a few hours left of daylight, which doesn’t leave us much time. Even with the benefit of my hands, I can’t imagine finding the cave without the sun to help us along.

Sam holds the map in his hands. At its right side Six has drawn a heavy X. A winding path five miles long connects the X with where we are now, marked on the map’s left side. Along the way we’ll skirt a riverbed while passing various landmarks noted for their physical descriptions, all of which are carefully marked to keep us on track. Turtle Rock. Fisherman’s Pole. Circle Plateau. King’s Throne. Lover’s Kiss. Lookout Point.

Sam and I lift our heads at the same time, and we both see the rock a quarter mile away with an uncanny resemblance to a turtle’s shell. Bernie Kosar barks.

“I guess we know which direction to head first,” Sam says.

And off we go, following the path set by the map. There’s no trail, nothing that might allude to these mountains having been trampled by beings of another world, or even by beings of this one. Once we reach Turtle Rock, Sam spots a fallen tree that hangs over the cliff side at a forty-five degree angle, and thus looks like a fishing pole patiently waiting for a bite. And we hike on, following the trail as the sun lowers in the western sky.

Each step taken is another chance to turn around and walk away. But neither of us does. “You’re a hell of a friend, Sam Goode,” I tell him.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he replies. And then, “I can’t stop my hands from shaking.”

After passing King’s Throne, which is a tall slender rock that looks like a high-back chair, I immediately spot two tall trees leaning against one another at slight angles, their branches appearing like arms wrapped around each other in an embrace. And I smile, for a brief moment forgetting how terribly scared I am.

“Only one more to go,” Sam says, pulling me back into the clutches of reality.

We reach Lookout Point five minutes later. All told, the hike has taken an hour and ten minutes, and the shadows are long and stretched as the last light of dusk drains away. Without warning, a deep growl bellows beside me. I look down. Bernie Kosar’s teeth are flashed, his fur bristling along his spine, his eyes pointed in the direction of the cave. He begins backing away from it.

“It’s okay, Bernie Kosar,” I say, patting his back.