I opened the door and cringed against the heat as I exited the car. Dank and gooey with a scent like the inside of a barn. A lumbering fly landed on my neck and buzzed away. Drunk after tasting my sweat. Al popped the trunk and I retrieved my travel bag. Looked down and saw at least four mosquitos sucking my blood. Ticks were probably scaling my shoelaces, looking for a tender place to clamp on. I shook my legs while turning in a circle. The cabin was sturdier than Al had described, which didn’t surprise me. The roof was in good condition, with a small gabled uprising that I assumed was a loft. There was a large propane tank on this side, which was clean and appeared well maintained. The woods surrounding the lot were dense with a gentle downhill slope that became steeper about ten yards past the property line. A good defensive position, I thought. Which I hoped would not come into play. Quiet, aside for the constant background chatter of bugs.

“Yeah?” Al said, stepping beside me.

“Sure,” I said. “I mean, thanks.” We met eyes for a brief instant and Al clapped me on my back.

He led me around. Four slate rocks formed a walkway to the front porch. He lifted the second one closest to the house. Dug in the dirt until he found a key, then spit-shined it with his thumb. Two rocking chairs were to the right of the door on a small wood plank porch. An ashtray on the railing held a cigar butt. Al doesn’t smoke cigars. A placard above the door showed the street address, 15, which seemed unnecessary. It’s not like the post office delivered out here. Al inserted the key and it turned easily. The door was stuck, but opened with a crack after a couple of shoves. A musty scent wafted out, but at least I didn’t smell puke. I slapped at a mosquito buzzing my ear and stepped inside.

“What’s that town we passed on the way up here?” I asked as I surveyed the interior. A small sitting room with furniture straight out of an LL Bean catalog. Wood frames and rustic fabrics featuring bears and trout. No TV, but bookshelves along the walls. A small kitchenette with a fridge, a stove, and a four-top poker table to dine on. A spiral staircase led to a small open loft. I could handle a couple of days here, no problem. More than that, though, and this place would start to close in.

“Mostly abandoned,” Al said, referring to the village I’d inquired about. “Couple of folks keep a place there, I think. Depot’s shut down, though. Truth is, I haven’t explored it much. You hear gunshots sometimes during deer season.”

“You got any guns here?”

Al shook his head. “This is rehab, remember. Firearms and detox don’t mix.”