The den surprised him with its comfort and security despite being in the middle of Twenty Mile Bog. And after all, he was experiencing some sort of freedom—a major relief compared to the last few days. He figured this was similar to the mindset of those persecuted during World War II. They too had taken to the woods, hiding from terror.

As he took in his surreal surroundings, he realized the bear could return any moment. His hands swept the floor for fresh bear signs, and he pulled up several clumps of coarse, black hair.

Looks like this bear hasn’t foreclosed yet, the little voice said.

Tell me something I don’t know, he said.

At least he had the knife. Matt reached into his back pocket, his splayed fingers finding nothing but denim.

“Shit,” he said.

Shut your mouth, the voice said. Do you want to give away your position? Matt turned towards the light, exasperated. He needed something to defend himself with, so he searched the island but came up empty. Then he retraced his steps to where he first emerged from the water. There on shore, half-covered in algae, was the knife, the blade cool to the touch. A splash came from across the pool, followed by a ripple.

Weird, he thought.

What hasn’t been weird? the voice said. What makes this instance stand out? Context, Matthew.

“Are you going to be a smart-ass, or are you going to help?” he shot back.

Oh I think I’ve been more than helpful, the little voice said. If you had liste—

“Okay, Okay. You’ve been helpful. No need to bring up mistakes,” Matt said.

Once back in the den, he nestled against the back wall, exhausted and cold. He wanted sleep so badly. Sleep was an escape, like the neardrowning which felt oh so right.

Matt gazed to the soft light beyond the den entrance. An occasional brown bat streaked across the sky, and a great horned owl hooted somewhere in the gloom. Evening had settled upon Twenty Mile Bog. Frogs let loose an amphibian version of “It’s a Small World After All,” or so he imagined. Interesting choice, fuckers, he said.

Soon the narrow oval of light at the den entrance dissipated to blackness. He flicked the switch on his headlamp, making sure he turned to face the wall. The last thing he needed was the Being catching a flicker of light. Maybe it could sense the energy of the batteries, too. He hoped not.

The frogs wound down their symphony, but the owl had just started.

This is a good thing, he thought. That owl will be my watchdog. When I hear it fly off or stop, you can bet that piece of shit is near.

The Puller, Matthew, the little voice said.

“I hate what you named it,” he whispered.

I hate it, period, the little voice said.