Glancing into another opening, to her left. Another section to sit in, identical to the one where they are holed up. Anne sees feet. What the shit? Her teeth chatter with the vibration. Attached to the feet are bone-thin legs attired in camo tights. On the feet are scuffed Doc Martens boots. An unconscious fear shoots through Anne and numbs her with alarm. Here is another human being, but she has no clue who that human being is. She and Trot are not alone.

HUNTER

HUNTER

Hunter’s mind drifts comfortably, lulled by the loud, throaty rumble of engines and the press of warm air against his face and his leathers. The long stretches of smooth blacktop shift and curve, only to grow straight again. The solitude frees his memories: a cold morning out in the woods, leaves crackling under his boot’s instep as his father, home from the road on an early Saturday morning, beckoned him forward. Peering up into the collage of limbs and leaves in the early-morning light, his father breached the silence with words. “See ’em? They’re just like the people I see every day on the road. Look far enough ahead to the other trees, you’ll see where they’re headed—maybe back to their nests. Those are the huge mounds they’ve built from twigs and leaves. Or they’re headed for their provisions—acorns or walnuts scattered on the ground. You just gotta look for the trees that grow those nuts. Like people, they’re easy to read.”

Leaning into a curve, Hunter thinks about his father’s words, thinks about Itch, meeting up with him and Nugget after Hunter stopped at the ATM back in their hometown. Withdrawing an extra grand to go along with the three he’d already packed. Itch mentioned he needed to stop in Middlesboro, Kentucky. Had some business to reconcile. Hunter thinking of those squirrels, of what his father told him. Itch is dealing marijuana again. Hunter knows this. Hell, Nugget knows this. So why didn’t Itch come out and tell Hunter or Nugget? He is either picking up more to sell or paying the guy he sold for. It isn’t a thing to keep secret among friends. If you couldn’t trust your friends, who could you trust?

Somewhere around the area, Itch is headed to his tree to “gather his nuts”—Hunter’s father’s term for stocking provisions. Hunter chuckles to himself. The old man is speaking to him from the grave. Over the years, Hunter had never given much thought to anything his father tried to tell him when he was growing up. But now it’s as if his father’s lessons are everywhere, waiting to be reflected on and realized.