The shelter shows the same level of sophistication, and sets off subtle alarm bells for me. It doesn’t look like a hunter’s cabin, but a cone-shaped structure that reminds me of historical photos I’ve seen of indigenous peoples like the Pomo. They settled in small bands throughout Northern California hundreds of years before the Europeans, and their homes looked much like this, rounded at the base with poles supporting the angled walls, tied together with reeds and overlaid with redwood bark and timber.

Who would go through this kind of effort to build a convincing replica of a Pomo shelter, though? And why so far from town, miles from anything like a road? Is this the work of a screwball survivalist who thinks the world is ending soon? Someone who’s off the grid because they have something to hide, maybe? Or is this my cop brain reaching for dark possibilities when really it’s probably just an outdoors type like Hap or like me, who needs the woods and the silence to feel whole sometimes?

“Hello?” I call out once, leaning in for a response, but only the quiet presses back.

—

I don’t drive into Mendocino again until the first day of October, when I’ve reached the end of my supplies. The light has begun to change with the season, the way it always does, sharpening the angles and shadows and making you grateful for every sunny day. This one is chilly but clear, with a severe sort of freshness that feels good on my face. After I shop, I stash my groceries in my Bronco and decide to walk for a bit. In Rotary Park, a man and woman are camped out at the lone picnic table near a small, tattered pup tent. They have a medium-sized dog with them, shorthaired with a dark muzzle and reddish fur. He spots me and his head snaps up, as if we’re friends. Then he trots over, falling into step behind me.

It’s funny at first, how quickly he matches my pace. I stop, lifting my hand like a traffic guard—“Stay”—but he ignores me. I take a step and he takes a step. I laugh and he sits down. We’re in a sitcom, suddenly, though no one seems to be watching, not even the hippie couple in the park.

I walk back to them. “Hey, would you mind holding on to your dog?”

“Not ours,” the woman says. She might be thirty or fifty, with a sun-lined face and spiky blond hair resembling duckling fuzz. A Seahawks sweatshirt hangs halfway to her knees over a long print skirt. “Never seen it before.”

The guy with her looks like he’s been on the streets since the Summer of Love. A single graying braid hangs over one shoulder, loosely plaited but clean. One silver tooth winks as he says, “Smart dog, though.”

“How can you tell? I’ve never kept dogs.”