He glanced around the room for weapons, focusing on the bunk bed. After painfully kneeling, he dragged out the musty cardboard box from underneath the first bunk. Inside lay a faded red box of clay pigeons, a rusting steel bear trap, a hammer, and moldy-looking rope—maybe forty feet. A faded roll of duct tape was tucked in a corner. After forcing himself to his knees, he limped over to the hutch and took the biggest kitchen knife in the mix, relishing the heft in his hands.

Reassuring, Matthew? the little voice asked. That thing just pulled your truck a mile down the road and flipped it. What do you think a kitchen knife is going to do against that?

He gripped the knife harder. “Because there might be other things out there I haven’t seen yet,” he said. There. That shut the voice up. Or maybe not.

You haven’t even seen this one, the anxiety voice chimed back.

How he wished Ron had left a gun at the shack. Even a .22 would be welcome.

Knife in hand, he stumbled over to the eastern window and peered out towards the aspen and outhouse. He saw something very strange—a patch of grass bent to the west, to the east, to the south . . . then the grass blew in a circular motion, three hundred and sixty degrees.

Board up the windows, Matthew! the little voice said.

Ignoring the pain and blood drizzling down his forearm, he grabbed one of the cherrywood chairs and placed it alongside the eastern window, using the grungy couch as a support. Next he trudged over to the west wall and removed the pans and nails. Then he took the hammer from the cardboard box and nailed the chair into the logs. The two sheets of plywood behind the cast iron stove were quite a find, so he positioned them over the southern window and nailed. He left enough of a crack to see out. He’d always found the dead oak menacing in a way, but not today, not anymore. Now there was a real boogeyman, or boogeything out there, toying with him like a cat toys with a chipmunk, letting him get ever so far before dragging him back. It was a bummer to think about what happened to the chipmunk in reality. Cute, seed-stuffed cheeks or not, the chipmunk, once caught, never got away. It either died from shock or was chewed to death. In many cases the chipmunk became paralyzed, causing the cat to lose interest. Therein lies the worst result. Only the fattest, dumbest cat would allow any other outcome.

A great rush of nausea hit him, and he vomited on the camp stove. Chunks of pancakes and syrup coated the dancing bear sticker and slopped off the sides.

See! We told you! Only a forkful! Scott’s parents taunted in his mind. Only a forkful! Only a forkful!