Suddenly Jack’s head did something strange: He felt thinking gears unscrew, become loose and wonky, and the world undulated in his view until he closed his good eye and leaned his head against a tree trunk. Nausea. Reeling. A sense of whirl and tip. If the figure coming closer glimpsed human skin the gun would be fired.

He opened his eye. Ready, then. The trouble was running on legs he couldn’t trust.

Now that the figure was nearer, Jack could see the gold flash of teeth. That dark length of the gun barrel. Ready, then.

The man stopped near the edge of the pines and scrutinized the thicket. Needled boughs. A dense black mass. Jack readied the knife, the quivering knife that glinted so brightly, that glimmered, dimmed, gleamed, dimmed again.

Now he’ll see.

Something cracked behind him. Gingerly. Snap of twig or tree limb. The wolf? Jack’s hair rose, and the man turned, trying to decipher the source of the sound in the darkness.

Now.

Jack jerked out from the branches, snagging skin, doing harm. Numb, bloody, wild. Bursting into the open, he charged, struck the man with a jolt that smacked them both to the snow. Jack jabbed with the knife, and the man grunted. The other one was shouting. Jack’s legs straightened. Then he was running, the fire beating heat on his right side. Silent, except for a curious percussion of air, near his head. Someone shooting. He swerved into the trees. Lurching through snow. Toward the road. They were chasing behind. At least twenty yards back. Yelling, careening through forest.

The second bullet sheared a scrap of flesh from Jack’s side. Again, the faint, airy noise. He spooked away like a horse, felt no pain, kept running. Veered left around a big tree and then ducked below the branch. He could see the truck.

One truck. Red’s was gone.

He faltered over uneven ground and blundered to the truck. It was a Bronco. His pursuer was closing in behind him.

Open door. Get in. Key in ignition. Turn.

The engine started.

He switched the lights on. A smooth blackness beckoned in his head. Gripping the wheel, Jack put the truck in drive and smashed down on the gas pedal. The tires spat up snow.

Plink!

The bullet struck metal somewhere. Then he was speeding fast, pitching and swerving down the road and into a black maw.

XVIII

Start and stop. Rewind.

I imagine you’re worried about Jack. Matty too. It’s weird how sometimes you don’t know the moments that change your life, right when they happen. You only know when you look back.

Up next is the third time I see Jack. A long time ago, I said there’d be five.

The third of five.

Or maybe, for you, it’s the second of five, or the fourth of ten.

Depending on which way you go.

Where you’re at.