The right front corner of the car was flattened, as well. A pool of headlight glass was sprinkled like multicolored confetti in the snow. Congratulations! You fucked up big-time! Oddly, there wasn’t any other sign of damage in the front. Not that Julien could tell. Nothing on the hood, either. Almost as if the only point of impact was the windshield. Was that even possible? If so, maybe the animal really was less injured than he’d feared.

Julien got closer to examine the roof. Even with the car at this awkward angle he was tall enough to see two distinct dents, right in the center. “What the hell?” Julien ran his hand over one. It was about the size of his palm but distinct. More than a mere ding. As if something heavy had...what? Landed on its feet, then launched itself into the air and kept running? The paint was scratched, too. Four short contrails behind each dent. Carefully he dragged his own four fingers down the white marks, and the back of his neck prickled as if someone was watching him.

Julien turned, scanning the road and the dark forest beyond. “Hello?” Barely more than a whisper, his voice still sounded disrespectfully loud. It was only then he realized just how quiet the surrounding woods were. Unnaturally quiet. Like every living thing was collectively holding its breath. Julien took a couple steps into the road, and his boots made a soft creaking sound on the tightly packed snow. “Hello? Is someone there?”

No one answered. Nothing made a sound. Well, of course not. What had he expected? Sweet Pea to waltz out of the trees doing his best Lurch impression? You rang?

Julien snorted at his own uneasiness. What did he know about the natural amount of noise wild animals were supposed to make, anyway? The closest he ever got to nature in LA was when his ex-wife Frankie sent weekly photos of Wilbur the mountain lion sneaking over her fence at night to drink out of the pool. He’d gotten one early that morning in the airport getting ready to board.

Call me back. I’m worried about you. And so is Wilbur!

He’d call her eventually. When he had good news. Or at least something better than this. And when he’d made it back to LA. If he told her he was in Maudit, he’d have to explain why, and right now he couldn’t even explain it to himself. He couldn’t even think it without wondering if the whispers were true. That maybe after years of being wound so tight, something in him really had just snapped.

Julien hauled his bag out of the car, ignoring the subsequent ache in his chest where the seat belt had bit into muscle and skin. There wasn’t any sense second-guessing it now. He was either going to find what he was looking for in Maudit Falls or he wasn’t. If the latter were true, he’d have proof that Rocky had been wrong, and there was nothing hidden on this mountain but superstition and perilous infrastructure. And if the former...