Matt nodded and took a sip of water. Then he stumbled over to the pile of tart apples and forced himself to suck one. Surprisingly, the bitter juice made him feel better. He took a few tart apples and sat on the bunk, thinking about the mountain lion, about how they hunted the sick and weak.

He was a perfect candidate.

As he sipped more water and sucked the tart monsters, the shivering lessened along with the cramping. He flexed and stretched his limbs, feeling a tightness around the wound in his right arm. His skin tickled with oozing puss as it leaked down his forearm.

Needing more boost, Matt reached down into the blue cooler and dug around, coming up with a packet of powder. The packet had been put there by his mother. Take your Emergen-C every day, she’d said. They’ll give you a boost, Matthew. Would your own mother lie to you?

The Emergen-C pouches contained vitamins in a sugary powder. Simply mix with water and drink. So he did.

And wouldn’t you know it? His mother had been right. Some of the fog cleared from his mind, and his limbs tingled. Better than nothing.

Matt Kearns stood and examined the shelf full of knickknacks. These items had fascinated him throughout his life. He stared at the fireplace, admiring the smooth stones and ancient poster for the last time. He glanced around the shack, taking in every part of it, memories of his father cooking, card games, animal stories, and laughter. He fed on all of this, his little escape from the world up on Julip Road. He raised his hand to his forehead and saluted the place. He’d never been in the military but was compelled to do so anyway.

Slowly he twisted into his jacket, wincing. Then he tied his boot laces and took two big knives from the hutch. Satisfied with his choice of cutlery, he reached for the fireplace poker. The density of the weapon pleased him—a good device for keeping a mountain lion at bay.

Matt opened the huge shack door for perhaps the last time, and scanned the property for the lion. Then he turned to face the inside of the shack. For a moment he thought he saw his father cooking on the camp stove, smiling.

“Goodbye,” he said, closing the heavy door. He turned away and limped to his truck. Although his legs were stronger than the previous night, they were far from ideal. At the truck, Matt bent over and cut the last blanket pouch from the frame. He emptied it of boulders and dragged the parachute-looking device behind him as the orchard grass slicked it with dew.

Almost at the leaning post now, dragging the pouch behind him, head down. Maybe the mountain lion would jump him and slash his jugular. Even in that horrible scenario he’d get the last laugh over the Being.