Matt slid into his blue jeans and snapped the silver belt buckle. Then he pulled on his flannel and shivered. The temp felt about fifteen degrees cooler, and the musty scent of the shack was even more pronounced than usual.

He went outside to take a piss. There was no need to use the outhouse. He had to keep track of where he pissed, though. There was nothing worse than walking through wet grass and realizing it was your own urine. This had happened many times before and always triggered laughter from those who were spared the embarrassment.

Matt looked back at the old outhouse. It had seen better days. Then again, the outhouse always seemed like it had seen better days.

The brilliance of the previous night’s display was replaced by a leaden, windless day. The sky was a blown-out white (what photographers referred to as the sky of death). Matt listened for birds and other wildlife, but all was silent.

Strange. Woodpeckers were always working the trees. He walked the path to the leaning post to take in the landscape, a common morning ritual before breakfast. In the mornings his father and Ron would often have a smoke and a coffee at the post. Matt clenched his right fist at the thought of this.

Blackened patches of orchard grass surrounded the fire pit thanks to Ernie’s temper tantrum. Everything else seemed in place. The intense curtains of Northern Lights had not lit the place on fire. The Hurons still loomed on the horizon, like a sleeping giant. The earthquake had not ripped them apart. All was as it should be except for one thing: no animal noises, not even an insect. If he didn’t hear a bird, he could at least hear a mammal digging or hoofing around. If he couldn’t hear that, he’d be able to spot insects flying.

He found nothing.

Matt shook his head and went inside the shack for breakfast.

The lumpy pancakes didn’t look so hot. The bottle of Vermont syrup reminded him of his childhood, when he stayed with friends on the Jersey coast whose parents were syrup aficionados. During breakfast, he and his friend Scott were scolded by Scott’s parents for using too much syrup.

No no! they’d yelled. You pour it on your fork, and when your fork is coated in syrup, you’re done, that is enough!

Matt tilted the bottle over the lumpy cakes. “Screw you guys,” he said.

The cakes didn’t go down so well.

Engorged, Matt checked the floor near the blue cooler. The plastic milk jugs he’d filled the day before were low. He grabbed three of the jugs and headed down to the Black.