Hunter Anderson

The damp air off the river smelled of rotting needles & diesel exhaust. John’s boots dragged through the gravel, every heavy step accompanied by the low, grating drone of his voice complaining about the mud, the lack of signal & the suffocating silence of Tony’s plot. "Trash goes in your pocket," a voice cut through the shadows. John stopped mid-complaint, looking down at the red foil wrapper he had dropped onto the damp moss. Hunter stood near the property line, his yellow Forest Service coat slicked with rain, flashlight angled toward the ground. He didn't look up as he stooped to pinch the wrapper between two dirt-stained fingers. "It's paper," John spat, sliding his hands into his coat. "It dissolves." "It doesn't," Hunter said. He stepped closer, dropping the crumpled foil straight into John's open palm. "Don't do it again." Three weeks later, the silence in Tony’s cabin was louder. In the main room, Lila hummed a low, off-key jazz melody while Tony sat in his armchair, staring at her with the same blank, uncritical devotion he had offered for 30 years. Neither of them looked up when the front door clicked open at midnight, or when John walked past the kitchen with a woman smelling of cheap gin & motel soap, heading straight for the back bedroom. My step parents never understood me, never cared. I didn't yell. I didn't look at Tony. I just grabbed the heavy flash on the counter & stepped out into the dark leaving my wedding ring on the table.? The river trail was pitch black until a thick hand caught my jacket sleeve, pulling me back from the steep embankment. "Watch the edge," Hunter said, his voice flat, steady, uncluttered by sympathy. He didn't ask questions. He simply turned, his light cutting a pale yellow circle into the gloom & gestured toward the small log structure fifty yards up the rise. Inside his kitchen, the air was cold. On the table sat a silver-framed photo facing the wall, a pale woman with cropped hair, her grin fading..