Standing in the doorway and shouting would be mistake number one, his father would say if he were here. This was known as an Operator Headspace Error between him, his father, and Ron.

Matt knocked on the logs.

Furry thieves! He shouted.

The raccoons looked up and then slammed into each other. The fattest stumbled into the camp stove table, shaking the silverware drawer. They were all hefty raccoons with big, fat asses.

A second later the raccoons wobbled out in unison, snouts twitching. They veered around him and to the west, up towards the leaning post. One of the raccoons farted repeatedly as it scurried uphill.

Matt had always thought of this place as his one true home—the place where he felt alive. The Northwoods gave him clarity and purpose, to live for nature and for nature to live for him. But now . . . Jesus Christ, what the hell was it now? He closed the massive door and secured the bolt.

The raccoons hadn’t figured out how to open the cooler, although they were known to do such things. But they’d shredded the Kashi bars. Damn. He rooted around, looking for a Kashi bar that wasn’t torn apart or coated in slobber. He found one and jammed the bar into his watering mouth.

You need to rebuild strength, the little voice said. You will never survive this if you don’t act like a normal person. Eat, sleep, drink. This isn’t the movies where you stay up for five days straight and defeat your foe. You are a biological thing, Matthew, you must obey certain rules to function at acceptable levels . . .

Matt finished the snack and fished in the bag for another. This time he found a peanut butter flavor, his favorite.

Next Matt checked for cuts or scrapes that weren’t healing. Then he took the hand mirror off the shelf and checked hard to see places. He dabbed hydrogen peroxide on the worst scrapes, then cleaned the caked blood from his temple. And how could he forget the spider bite? The bump had receded and the redness was all but gone. He may have done more damage with the knife than the spider did with its fangs.

Stinging from head to finger, he picked up his backpack and withdrew fresh clothing. His current clothes were . . . nasty. He pulled a pair of blue jeans over his lean, stiff body and then a white T-shirt and red-checkered flannel. Although such a simple act, it went a long way to offering a glimpse of normalcy.

Until the voice chimed in, anyway.

They say that red can trigger aggression and passion, the little voice said. Are you sure that’s the best color choice? Is the Puller keeping you alive because something about you didn’t offend? Be careful how you present yourself even in these remote woods, my friend.