“Keep going you wuss,” he said, as if that John Wayne style of pep talk would somehow heal his injuries. And John Wayne never saw the sands of Iwo Jima anyway. Sore or not, he pushed on the passenger door above him while climbing the seatback. Soon, he was able to get his head through the opening, enough to prop the door while pushing the rest of his body through. The plastic armrest on the door dug into his back, hard. Once clear of the door opening he let himself fall, only to have his boot catch on the door panel. He dangled for a moment, then collapsed onto the orchard grass.

Head throbbing and confused, he blinked at the leaden sky, cool air fresh upon his cheeks.

One time, back in school, he’d slipped and fallen on spilled apple juice and cracked his head on the tile. He’d been discombobulated for a while, and this was sort of like that. The good news was his right eye was beginning to open, but just a bit. The blood in his left eye had cleared, too.

Matt turned to his left, making his head hurt even worse. The entire truck was on its side, the underbelly exposed. The passenger tire was still spinning. He zoned out on the rust patches corroding the metal frame and realized the engine wasn’t running. On top of that, branches jabbed through the plastic windows on the pickup cap he and his father had installed. Clusters of leaves stuck out of the tailgate as if they’d grown there. The cap tailgate window was speared by a gangly maple branch that protruded like a ladder on a handyman’s truck.

Dismayed at the condition of his truck, Matt wiggled his toes, making sure they weren’t broken. While doing so, he noticed the tall blades of golden rod and sandy soil. The smell of place. An undeniable olfactory imprint. At once he knew the location, didn’t even need to turn around.

He stood, slowly, examining the truck’s path. A head rush hit him and he had to bend over, his fingers to his temples. Sure he wasn’t going to pass out, he stood upright once more. A swath of flattened orchard grass cut between the outhouse and big aspen tree. The path led northeast across the orchard to the tree line where he’d been flung back. The birch tree crowns rustled in all directions. There was no wind.

Is that it? he thought. Does it live in the trees?

The rustling stopped.

Get in the shack, NOW! the little voice screamed.

Without hesitating, he hobbled to the shack door, like a bloody hunchback. Once inside he shut the door behind him and locked down the huge iron bolt. He teetered from window to window, eyes darting.

Nothing.