Sirens shattered the stillness. A few creek chubs in the blackness swam frantically in all directions. The cruiser reached the rim of the bog, the water so dark the lights did not reflect. Then the car hurled through the air, the deafening sirens panning like an effect on a psychedelic record. Charlie 102 smashed into the murky water, splashing creek chubs and foul algae onto patches of dry ground. The inky water absorbed the cacophonous sirens, returning calm to the boreal forest. After a moment the sirens stopped altogether, replaced by one last electronic warble from the bottom of the forgotten bog. Ripples of dark water lapped at the slimy bank, and bubbles roiled up to the surface as if a big, metal crocodile lay waiting for prey.

Another secret for the Northwoods.

Matt screamed as he watched the squad car’s front end smash into Julip Road, and then become vaguely blocked by a distortion. “Go!” he shouted. “Get the fuck out of here!”

Shut up you fool, the little voice said. The Puller is busy. Make something of it.

The poor officer clutched at his chest as his face reddened, no doubt wondering what was happening to him. Matt wanted to do whatever he could to help him. But instead he stood there, clenching his fists, helpless.

You can’t save him, the anxiety voice said. Look around. You can’t even save yourself. But you have a chance . . . RIGHT NOW.

He watched the suffering officer and grimaced, the taste of bile strong in the back of his throat. He was ashamed at what he was about to do, but the voice was right. He couldn’t even save himself. What possible assistance could he afford anyone else?

The squad car lifted thirty feet off the road, then flipped over. For whatever stupid reason, an old lyric from a famous rock band crept into Matt’s head.

There’s a feeling I get when I look to the west, the little voice said.

At once the stasis left him, and he sprinted up the two-track. His breath was calm, deliberate. He did not care about the cuts and scrapes and pain. Adrenaline took care of that.

Inside the shack, he yanked on his pants, flannel, and boots. He messed up a shoelace and panicked. He seized the kitchen knife, a box of matches, a jug of water. Then he put the blade in between his teeth and went over to the bunk and retrieved the headlamp, stretching it over his head. He ran out of the shack, not bothering to close the door.

As he ran up the path to the leaning post, police sirens went off. He sprinted past the leaning post and down towards the wall of alder and balsam fir that made up the western border of the orchard.

Sirens wailed across the countryside.

Danger, danger, danger.

They clamored in his head and he ran like he’d just hopped a prison wall.