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  At first, Tyler wondered if Charlie might be into more than just his rehabilitation, but the guy never made a pass at him, nor did he ever have an unkind word. He was the first person in a long time to acknowledge Tyler’s membership in that hopeless group known as the human race.

  Charlie took it easy on him, turning a blind eye to his tardiness and cursing. He seemed to understand what ate away at Tyler, though Tyler never voiced it. When he just needed to talk to someone, Charlie listened. Tyler legally only had to report to him once a week, but soon, he began visiting him far more often than that.

  Tyler more or less followed Charlie’s rules, at least those that mattered. In living under Charlie’s roof, he submitted himself to rules that were stricter than the conditions of his parole, particularly with respect to curfews. Of course, he didn’t like them, but after six years of eating and showering on someone else’s say-so, the rules were minor inconveniences. Tyler understood that they were designed to keep him on the straight and narrow. He kept to himself and ducked low enough for trouble to pass over whenever it came looking for him.

  Tyler had heard most parolees talk about their parole officers with scorn and hatred. Most of the others in the house didn’t appreciate Charlie’s efforts on their behalf, as if the world owed them something after it had taken away their freedom as punishment for their crimes. Tyler didn’t share their mind-set. The world owed him nothing. But what did he owe the world?

  Sometimes, it felt as though he owed it everything.

  It was Charlie who encouraged him to go back out there, to find closure. All those memories tormenting Tyler day in and day out were bad for his psyche. In six years, all he’d thought about was what had landed him prison. If his finger had been a nanosecond faster or slower on that trigger, Stevie would probably still be dead, but Tyler’s bullet would not have been a “contributing factor.” Why did Stevie have to be at Galveston State Park, running down that trail at that exact moment?

  Fate put us there. Tyler never understood why he hadn’t fought against fate. He needed to make sense of the event that defined him, and if he couldn’t make sense of it, maybe he could at least move past it—if the world hadn’t already moved past him.

  God, he hated that fucking town. He hated that sheriff who called him a liar. He hated the park rangers who stood around, pretending nothing was wrong, doing nothing, letting him—just a boy with a rifle and no parental guidance—come and go as he pleased. He hated those fucking townsfolk who called for a lynching, damning him for the deaths of four people when he’d only shot one. And he hated the court for taking away six years of his life.

  His hate left him bitter. Tyler wasn’t worth shit. The people who’d called for his head, all self-righteous and God-fearing, weren’t worth shit either. The difference between Tyler and them was that Tyler knew exactly how little he was worth.

  The need to put the memories to rest nagged him to go back to Galveston State Park. Tyler’s demons resided in that park. He had to face them, like it or not. He had to go back.

  One Saturday afternoon in May, just after his breakfast shift ended, Tyler borrowed a vehicle from a stranger who didn’t know he was borrowing it and made the forty-seven-mile trek to Galveston State Park. He’d taken cars before in his life but had never broken the conditions of his parole. As he drove the dusty, dead streets out of the city and picked up the interstate, open highway stretched before him through fields and prairies, lush meadows of Indian grass and big bluestem. Behind him, off in the distance, the Ozarks formed a bumpy skyline shrouded by clouds.

  Out there, nature should have felt untainted, but a shadow of evil seemed to lurk everywhere, its presence strengthening the closer he got to the park. Tyler pulled into the parking lot in the midafternoon. Galveston State Park wasn’t much to look at, not like it used to be when he was a boy. Cracks ran everywhere across the paved lot, weeds and roots sprouting from them. In the small picnic area just beyond the lot, the tables were in desperate need of repair, the wood splintering and covered in bird shit. To his right, at the end of the lot, the ranger station had withstood time’s onslaught fairly well. Like a raised ranch, it sat on a partly aboveground foundation. A deck, smooth and worn, circled the square building, with stairs leading up to it on all four sides.

  Beyond the picnic area and the ranger station, as far as the eye could see, was a dense forest of hickory and oak, an occasional dogwood disturbing the monotony. Here and there, the mouth of a trail broke the tree line. One trail led to the campground and the former game area beyond that. Others wound over hills and through valleys. Still others ventured into parts of the forest where few had ever been. And one trail led to the lake.

  All of them guaranteed nature at its wildest.

  From the entrance, it was a bit of a hike to the campgrounds down what had once been a drivable dirt path and was now overgrown and riddled with bumps and trenches. The treads of campers, trucks, and SUVs dug deep trenches along the sides of the path. The road humped, alive with brush, between the trenches. Tyler doubted the Honda Civic he had acquired for the trip would make it more than ten feet before it bottomed out.

  The game range and the pond within it sat beyond the campgrounds. The range had been closed to hunting a few years prior to Tyler’s incident, so he doubted anyone would be out that way. Just as well. He didn’t want to be seen. He just wanted to be alone, forgotten.

  He stepped out of the car, tossed the keys on the seat, and closed the door. He inhaled deeply, remembering the smells, sights, and sounds as he took in the scene. The parking lot was nearly empty. It was late May, and Tyler expected camping season to be in full tilt. He saw an Outback with an empty roof rack, a Wrangler with monster truck tires, a rust-covered pickup, and a black Elantra. Near the ranger station were two Jeep Cherokees with the words GALVESTON STATE PARK written across their doors. One was running.

  Tyler’s head turned at the sound of a screen door swinging open.

  “If I’m not back before six,” a wiry, thin man with an equally wiry beard said as he took the stairs of the porch two at a time, “go ahead and leave. Just leave the lights on so people know I’ll be back.”

  The man hustled toward the idling Jeep. As he rounded the vehicle, his eyes met Tyler’s and gave him the once-over. Tyler stared back and was wondering what he had done to arouse the man’s suspicion when the concern faded from the park ranger’s face. He tipped his small sombrero-like hat at Tyler, who nodded back. The ranger hopped into the Jeep and backed up in a hurry. He drove past Tyler and turned up the bumpy path toward the campgrounds.

  That’s right, old man. Let me come and go as I please, just like your kind always did.

  Tyler started to follow when he noticed a yellow Geo Tracker parked at the other end of the lot. It hadn’t been there a moment earlier. The driver stood on the far side of the car, leaning against it while smoking a cigarette. Tyler studied her back with the same scrutiny the ranger had applied to him, unsure why the vehicle or the girl gave him pause. He shook it off and headed toward the trail.

  The entrance to the forest looked just as he remembered it though a little less colorful, less vibrant. The hinges on the open gate had rusted. The Smokey Bear trash can tops were sun-bleached and graffiti-riddled. Thickets with shark-fin thorns lined the roadside. The vibe wasn’t welcoming. It felt more like, “Enter at Your Own Risk.” A sign that said as much hung from the gate.

  He headed through it. Dressed only in a T-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers, and carrying nothing but his inner burdens, he began his long walk to the lake.

  Welcome home, he heard his father’s voice say.

  As Tyler approached the campgrounds, he saw a large wooden sign standing guard at the entrance. Good to see there’s at least one thing different about this place.

  He walked up to the sign and ran his fingers along the etched wood as if reading braille. “The state of Kansas is NOT responsible for your safety,” he read aloud, mimicking Judge Fucktard’s voice and manner
isms. “Please exercise caution and camp responsibly. Dispose of cigarettes and trash in proper receptacles, and douse all campfires. Do NOT feed the wildlife. Violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

  Tyler scoffed. The state of Kansas has never given two shits about my safety. He recalled all the times correctional officers weren’t there when he needed them. And where the fuck was the good ol’ state of Kansas when he shot a kid with a rifle he wasn’t supposed to have in an area where he wasn’t supposed to be shooting?

  Oh, but the state was there after the fact. Fuck Kansas.

  He dropped his head. Whether he’d deserved to be locked up or not, none of that mattered anymore. It was time to put an end to that part of his life. He wondered what might come after.

  With his hands thrust into his pockets, Tyler plodded forward. Long, leafy branches shaded the path and kept him cool, the sun only peeking through here and there like beams from giant spotlights. He passed a few camping areas. They were as quiet as a cold night and looked unoccupied.

  Music blasted up ahead. The song had something to do with pimping hos and keeping bitches in line. Tyler suspected he’d find a bunch of privileged white boys getting drunk and thinking themselves street thugs. When he came up to the site, his suspicions were confirmed. They were frat boys, Alpha Omega motherfuckers, the kind who thought all of life was a party. Someday, they would learn how wrong they were.

  He tried to sneak by the college kids unnoticed. He’d made it halfway across the break in the trees that gave access to the clearing when he heard a voice. “Hey, man. We got beers. You want one?”

  Tyler sighed. Great. They want to be my friends. Like that’ll end well.

  With a clear view of the camping area, Tyler saw one of those motor homes that were similar in size and shape to a short bus, the kind with a sleeping area that overhung the cab. A banner with three symbols that might as well have been written by aliens hung from its side.

  A young man stood several feet away from him. He seemed to be about Tyler’s age, but he was tall as a power forward and thick as an offensive lineman. His shirt clung tight around a barrel of a chest. Yellow-brown stains ran down the front of it, but he didn’t seem to mind. Beneath those stains, Tyler made out an arrow pointing to the man’s right and the words “I’m with Stupid” beneath it.

  Each of his meaty fists surrounded a can of beer that looked as small in his grip as a roll of quarters would look in any normal-sized hand. Empties lay at his feet and littered the clearing, marking his territory. The boy belonged in a zoo, scratching his hairy ass and going apeshit for bananas.

  A heavy weight smothered Tyler’s shoulder. Fingers curled around his collarbone. Startled, he spun away, throwing up his hands in defense.

  A cold, dripping aluminum can was shoved into one of them. “Here you go.” A boy with small, beady eyes and a big, goofy smile marred with crooked teeth thrust a beer into Tyler’s hands. He cupped his hands around Tyler’s. The smell of an opened keg permeated from the boy’s massive frame, an aura so thick it could cause secondary drunkenness.

  He was the same boy as the one in the clearing. Tyler couldn’t wrap his head around it. No one could move that fast and be in two places at once, unless he was not one but two people.

  Tyler looked back at the clearing. There, one of two identical twins stood, belching as he finished the beer in his right hand. He wiped his mouth and laughed. “That trick gets them every time.” The twin was wearing the same shirt as his brother, stained with the same mystery streaks, except his “I’m with Stupid” arrow pointed left. “Too bad we can only do it once to strangers.”

  “You should have seen his face,” his brother said, laughing. He put his arm around Tyler. “Come on, man. It’s all in good fun. Have a drink with us?”

  Tyler immediately disliked the twins. They reminded him of those evil little bastards from a Dr. Seuss book his mom used to read to him—Thing One and Thing Two. Except they were all grown up—not any more mature, but a whole lot bigger.

  Thing One, the twin who was chugging beer faster than a Hummer guzzled gasoline, downed his second can. “Frosh!” he yelled. “Get out here. We have a guest, and we need more beer.”

  “Yes, sir.” A small boy with curly black hair and a baby face nearly tripped in his hurry to exit the camper. He carried a six-pack in each hand. When another frat boy who followed him out pushed him, the boy fell and skidded across the grass. The beer cans clanged against each other as they hit the ground.

  A sinister smile ran across the second boy’s face. He seemed older than the others, older than Tyler even, and he was undoubtedly the group’s ringleader. His deep brown eyes smiled, too, failing to conceal a dangerous mind. He crouched near Frosh. “What do you say?”

  “Sorry, master. I didn’t mean to get in your way, sir.” Frosh stood and ran over to Thing One. He pulled a beer from the six-pack and opened it for him.

  “Well, I’ll be leaving now.” Tyler raised the beer, popped it open, and took a swig. It tasted like warm piss, but he swilled it anyway, not realizing until then how thirsty he had become. He walked over to the trash barrel and threw away the empty can.

  Forcing a smile, he turned to the frat boys and waved. “Thanks for the beer.”

  As Tyler left, Thing One and Thing Two giggled like a pair of preteen girls at a slumber party, but it was the other one, the one who had pushed the youngest and weakest of their lot into the dirt, who concerned Tyler. He swore he could feel the boy’s eyes on him as he walked away.

  But walk away he did. The inane hazing rituals of a college fraternity were not his problem. He passed a few more tents and another motor home before the trees began to huddle closer. The sparse rays of light that broke through them formed a haze that was almost tangible, like a dust cloud sprouting from an old cushion that was suddenly slapped. The road faded into a few lines of matted grass.

  A rope barred his path. From it hung another, simpler sign: “No hunting,” and below that, “No trespassing.”

  Well, this is it. He let out a deep breath but hesitated before taking another step. What am I doing? There’s nothing good here for me. He looked back. A long way off, the sun illuminated the path like the light at the end of a tunnel. It looked peaceful—another mirage.

  There’s nothing good for me out there, either.

  He pulled his watch—a scratched mess with a broken strap that a customer had left at the restaurant—from his pocket. It was just after four in the afternoon. It would be dark in a couple of hours. Light or dark, it didn’t make much difference. He had nowhere else he needed to be. Charlie would feel differently, he knew, but Charlie was a long way off.

  Tyler caught his reflection in the glass of the watch face. Dark stubble lined his jaw like a thin layer of moss. His eyes had deep shadows beneath them and had almost lost their blue completely. They were dead gray husks around pupils as black as pitch. Gazing into them was like staring down two loaded barrels. He blinked, and the illusion dissipated.

  Tyler shoved his watch back into his pocket and pressed forward.

  It’s not far from here. He peered down the trail into darkness. He knew the woods would open up again about a quarter mile up if he veered left. A trail would spit him out at the lake, into the light of day.

  I should easily be able to make it back before sunset, if… if I puss out. Tyler shivered. The thought of stumbling through the darkness to find his way back caused him more unease than facing his past.

  He stepped over the rope and headed down the path. There, the grass and weeds were as high as his knees, a home for crickets and ticks and all sorts of skittering creatures he’d rather not think about. After ten minutes of cautious slogging, Tyler headed left. He might as well have left the trail entirely. The remnants of the path were all but gone.

  The lake’s just ahead—where they say I killed Stevie Coogan. He spat, feeling the old wound festering. His guilt was piled high like a cartoon sandwich, all starting that day
, or maybe culminating that day. Combined with his anger, it drove him onward.

  After another fifteen-minute hike, Tyler felt the ground beneath his feet softening. He saw an opening up ahead. The grass gave way to mud. Tall reeds swayed in a cool breeze that carried a rank, rotten odor. The sun, lower in the sky, bathed everything in an orange glow.

  Tyler couldn’t see where the mud ended and the water began. The water was silent. He couldn’t hear a single splash from a fish or turtle, not a croak from a toad or even an air bubble popping at the surface. A steady hum of insect wings—the shrill whine of swarms of mosquitos as thick as snow in a blizzard—was the only sound entering Tyler’s ears.

  The lake had always been still as glass, if his memory served, but it hadn’t always been so stagnant and ugly. Only unpleasant things lived beneath its surface. Only unpleasant memories were born there.

  It’s poison. Even the deer he’d had in his sights six years earlier wouldn’t drink from it. As a kid, Tyler and his dad had visited the lake with a cousin, now moved away and mostly forgotten, who jumped into the swamp end of it on a dare. Tyler remembered vividly his cousin’s screams when he had emerged, leeches clinging to his appendages like tails pinned on a crazed, hee-hawing donkey. By the time they had burned the last one off, the boy was as white as chalk.

  His cousin never returned to those woods. Tyler wished he’d been smart enough to do the same. But he had never been afraid of ugly things.

  He looked for the rock where he had propped his father’s rifle six years before. He wasn’t supposed to have the gun, but his father apparently didn’t need it where he’d gone, so Tyler had kept it hidden behind his dresser. His mother never found it. She would have had to get her drunk ass off the couch for that.