Chapter Forty-Four

Beckett

The woods are too quiet.

I hate quiet like this. Quiet means someone is watching us. Quiet means someone is waiting. Quiet means we are already too late.

My breath hangs in the air in front of me like faint smoke. The sun is still low, weak winter light barely cutting through the trees. Denver cold is bad, but up here it gets into the bones, settles deep, makes everything slower. Makes mis