One of the clippings covered the Michigan moose reintroduction. It featured a photo of a moose being dragged through the air by a helicopter: Moose Are Back, read the caption. The moose’s legs dangled above the canopy and its head drooped—the effects of high dose tranquilizer.

He clenched the newspaper, wrinkling it. He thought of the moose which had tried to get inside the shack, how it desperately smashed against the logs only to be dragged off by something it could sense but not see.

Matt gazed into the fire, the softwood popping and crackling. His damp boots sizzled from the heat. The flames brightened the shack, making the slate rocks and stones look like a museum exhibit his mother used to take him to back in Chicago. Old Town, they’d called it. He remembered the quaint historic shops with no one in them except mannequins dressed for the time period. The streets were a buttery-looking cobblestone with frozen horse-drawn carriages here and there. Victorian street lamps lit the way with warm orbs. The memory always started with his mom walking by his side, handing him pieces of sesame candy.

Old Town was at the back of the museum—which one he couldn’t be sure. All those big Chicago museums merged as one in his memories. Either way, Old Town was hidden away from the main attractions. Old Town was dark enough that such a thing would never be allowed today for fear of public safety. You couldn’t buy anything at Old Town and you couldn’t enter the stores, either. He could hear the clacking of shoes on cobblestone and the prerecorded horse noises coming out of the carriage moldings as he and his mother walked past. Old Town only had one road and it didn’t go very far. It dead-ended into a black papier-mâché wall. Tall curtains were raised to the ceiling alongside it, obscuring the inner-workings of the museum. The papier-mâché wall bulged as if consisting of boulders. A mannequin newspaper boy stood next to the wall holding a stack of papers, one held high in the air, front page facing the town.

Matt remembered his mom commenting on how dark it was. Sometimes the darkness can be good, she’d told him, walking past the gaslight glow windows of the Old Town post office. The rest of the museum is so bright, honey. This is a nice place to take a break, she’d said. He remembered the prerecorded sound of the carriage rider announcing his arrival into Old Town: Whoa thar ponies! Whoa thar! By golly, we’re at Old Town. Johnson, grab the luggage.

The Old Town exhibit didn’t last long. It was replaced by an interactive science section, lit with clinical mercilessness. Bright and shiny drew a crowd. Most visitors walked right past Old Town as if it were a storage closet.