The road splits and splits again, going from asphalt to gravel, and steeply inclines. His shocks whine and squeak as his tires shudder in and out of hardened, treaded ruts. Trees flit in and out of the fog like black wraiths. The road bends and Jack notices the SUV parked up ahead just barely in time to stomp his brakes. The pickup skids to a rocking stop.

It’s a black Chevy Tahoe that wouldn’t look out of place except for its government plates. A man climbs from the cab. He’s tall and wears a cornflower-blue collared shirt and khakis, and his waist is so thin that his braided leather belt is tightened to its farthest notch. He looks to be in his early thirties but his blond hair has receded into a downy horseshoe. He smiles and gives an apologetic wave as he approaches.

Jack drops his window and the cool moist air pours into the cab and the man says, “Sorry about that.”

“You trying to turn around?”

“No, no—I’m parked like this on purpose. Road’s closed, I’m afraid.”

“Sorry?” Jack squints as if to see past the Tahoe, but the fog is too thick to reveal much. “But you don’t look like Bureau of Land Management or Forest Service.”

“Right?” The man laughs and pats his head. “I should get one of those Smokey the Bear hats, huh? To fit the part?”

“So you are with the Forest Service?”

He holds out his hand and tips it one way, then the other. “Basically. Government.”

“Basically government?”

“Yep.” The man is still smiling, but the smile twitches at the corner.

“Look, I’m supposed to head up this way. I work for the U—so I’m basically government too—and the Hemlock Hills Tree Farm gave UW Extension a call, asking for a consult.”

“Huh. Weird. I don’t know anything about that.” His eyes turn down the road, where another engine can be heard grinding up to gear behind them. He gives Jack a little two-fingered salute and says, “Be right back.”

In the side mirror Jack watches the man trot down the road to greet a sedan, ill-suited for these roads, as it brakes and pulls off into the brush. A big guy in a suit is driving, but he stays seated. The rear door opens and a woman gets out. Her hair is sprayed and styled like a winged helmet—auburn with a bold streak of white running through it. She wears high-waisted gray slacks and a pink silk blouse and heels. She and her skinny friend confer quietly for a moment and then she marches toward Jack’s pickup. She doesn’t stumble in her heels; she spikes her way across the uncertain surface of the dirt road as if it were level hardwood.