“Tell me something I don’t know,” he mumbled, trying to stand. His jaw felt like it was a big, rusty hinge and he touched the bottom of his face to make sure it was still all there. With great effort, Matt slumped towards the shack, dragging his right leg behind him. The owl watched from its roost, maybe to see if he stirred any mice from the grass.

At last he reached the bunk and stretched the headlamp over his swollen head. He flipped the switch, illuminating the shack with sterile light that removed all color. His right arm itched and he removed his red-checkered flannel. Dirty yellow puss oozed out of the branch wound from a week ago. He poured peroxide on it, grimacing at the sting. The fluid pooled, then dripped down his arm onto the floor. Peroxide bubbled and foamed in the wound and he wanted to vomit, but let loose a dry gag instead. A long drink of water helped, although it was almost empty. Next Matt wrapped gauze around the wound and put his flannel back on. He shivered violently, then huddled in his own arms.

A breeze poured through the broken window above the couch. He thought about ripping down the shelf and boarding it up, then realized it might be a good idea to have two exits tonight. As far as he knew, the clicking freaks were all dead. If they weren’t, they’d have feasted on him as he lay knocked out under the dead oak. Still, he didn’t like the idea of an open window. He slid out the cardboard box from under the bunk and taped it to the logs. Halfway through the process, he lost his balance and tumbled onto the couch.

When he recovered, he bent down near the mouse bucket and took the lantern. The glass was cracked but it still looked useable, and white gas sloshed around inside. He found a lighter and a fresh mantle that looked like a baby’s sock. The lantern lit for maybe the last time and he turned the intensity dial, bathing the shack in organic light.

Matt flicked off his headlamp and glanced around. Memories embedded everything. The old man loved this place as much as he did. He wondered what his father would do, how he’d approach this situation. He sat, waiting for an answer but there was only the stillness of the country and his shivering.

Your father would leave immediately, the little voice said. He’d know that he had twenty-four hours or he’d be dead.

“Easier said than done,” Matt said. His mind raced with absurd plans. The only plan based on reality was running to the truck and driving away. Fine. Maybe this time it might work. But he needed a distraction, something to get him going fast enough so the Being could never catch up.