She turned, her eyes meeting his. Matt dove into the black pupils, swimming in them like a shark behind a fishing boat that just poured the day’s bait overboard. Dark waters slashed and churned, but he sensed no danger. He slashed at the squid-like creatures swimming up towards him, swallowing them whole. When the waves splashed into his face, he thought he’d drown, but he never did. Breathing in the warm, black sea made him grow. Soon his feet were upon the ocean floor, the sea below him like a bull moose in the bog.

“Soon you can touch me all you desire. But for now, I need you to look west.” Stacey cupped his chin with her fingers and turned his head. “See? Matthew? See?”

Mist billowed from the bog, carpeting the forest floor in milky white. His feet disappeared in the haze. Goldie’s fern and Blue cohosh rose out of the mist. One fern resembled a lady holding a basket, her back hunched and a scarf on her head. A big Blue cohosh mimicked a man holding a lantern, trying to find his way home.

Sweeping melancholy socked Matt in the gut and he frowned.

Stacey raised her arm into the air and the fog dissipated, slowly.

Matt woke to pink clouds overhead and crushing pain in his temples.

Freaking sunset, he thought, squinting at the sky. The dream now spiderweb wind strands, fading, fading, fading . . .

A lone bird raced awkwardly across the sky, maybe a loon from Albert’s Lake. The bird’s neck craned forward, its wings hyper-flapping. He watched, wishing he could leave like the loon. Within ten seconds the loon was out of sight, heading east over the Black.

He rose to his feet, right hand rubbing his temple.

Oh, but it was worth it, wasn’t it Matthew? the little voice said. Because guess what? You got a piece of the Puller.

He didn’t know what he’d hit with the axe, but he did know the axe hurt something. After a brief search he found the axe, plum-colored slime smearing the blade and drizzling down the handle. His right hand was also streaked with the substance.

He grinned.

“Gotcha,” he said to the Yooper.

Drops of blood flecked the orchard grass and formed a faint trail. He strained his eyes in the fading light, trying not to lose the trail. And damn if he couldn’t smell the stuff. The stench reminded him of the garbage disposal in the house when he forgot to flip the switch after a few days.

The blood trail led uphill, past the leaning post.

What he saw next frosted his heart.

The blood trail led towards the shack.

With the awareness of a gazelle at a watering hole, he slunk forward. This might be an ambush. A real bad freaking ambush.

Haven’t they all been ambushes? the little voice asked.

Not helpful, Matt said.