I’m on the hunt for the stranger in town.

Dear Trevor,

By the time you get this letter, you’ll be back from your canoe trip. Can I wish you luck—or pray for your safety—in the past? I think so. I pray that you were safe on Saturday and that you made it back to your mother alive and well. Bruised, maybe, but not broken.

Not all my children have fared so well, Trevor. Ahh.

I’m on the hunt for the stranger in town. Sung-Hee and Dr. Jones both claim to have seen him, but both describe him completely differently, so I doubt their stories. Dr. Jones says the man appeared to be “short, bald and studious.” Not sure what studious looks like. Jones said he wore a rumpled, dark blue suit and appeared lost in thought. He said he saw him down among the sound end of the cabins, but no one who lives down in that part of town seems to have spotted the man.

Sung-Hee said the man had a full head of hair and a prominent beard. “You should see the beard on this guy,” she said. “He put some years into that thing. He’d never be able to work in a restaurant with hair like that.”

Sung-Hee claims to have seen him on the dock. I looked, but saw no sign. At least it’s nice to have something to look for, Trevor. It keeps my mind off the letter I know I need to write you.

Dad

We’re gonna drop our canoe in there.

Dear Dad,

I don’t know what I might do about the cookie contest, but Brian Haase pulled one of the flyers off the wall and showed it to me.

“Do you know what this is?” he said. “This–this is opportunity.”

“Opportunity to do what?”

“To do–something! We need to talk.”

We haven’t talked yet, but I kind of liked Brian’s spirit. His eyes were all wide and little spots on his cheeks got all red. It reminded me how he used to look when we got in fights in 5th grade. Besides, doing something seems a lot like what you’re always talking about. Doing versus not doing.

Tomorrow is Saturday. Tonight I’m going to spend the night at Donnie’s house and then in the morning his mom is going to bring us up to Flaming Geyser State Park. We’re gonna drop our canoe in there and paddle down the Green River to the Highway 18 Bridge. Donnie’s bringing a cellphone in a Ziploc bag so that we can call her when we get there so she can pick us up. It should be pretty fun. It’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow and Donnie says his mom bought us a whole bunch of junk food to eat along the way. I hope she bought Bugles. Donnie always has Bugles in his lunch. They’re kind of delicious.

Remember Mrs. Fletcher, my math teacher? She’s still as evil as ever and today, to prove it, she gave us a test on algebra, which we’ve never studied. When I reminded her of this, she said, “I’m fully aware of what we have and have not studied, Mr. Griffiths. However, those of you who do well enough on this test will be admitted directly into algebra next year, instead of waiting until 9th grade. The rest of you will take the ordinary track to pre-algebra.”

It seems pretty stupid. How are we supposed to do well on a test when we’ve never studied the stuff? Anyway, I took the test. I knew more of it than I thought. We’ll find out next week, I guess.

Wish me luck on my canoe trip,

Your son,

Trevor

Speaking of dorks, our school has this thing called a pep club.

Dear Dad,

I’m thinking about this thing you’re having a hard time telling me. I’m thinking that the obvious thing you would say to me would be that I should just get it off my chest. But that sounds kind of dumb. If it was that easy, you would have told me already. I’m trying to imagine what could be so bad. I can imagine some pretty bad stuff and thinking of you doing some of it freaks me out. Maybe it would be better if you didn’t tell me. Maybe I’m not the right person to tell.

What can I do to help you?

I kind of feel like a dork talking like this.

Speaking of dorks, our school has this thing called a pep club. Pep. That has got to be one of the most stupid words in the world. I don’t want to be part of any club called pep. Anyway, the pep club does stuff like organize the pep assemblies, which are pretty dumb, but better than going to class. You get to watch cheerleaders do their stupid cheers. Cheerleaders are kind of ridiculous, but they’re pretty hot.

The pep club is also putting on a cookie contest. Guess who the judges will be? The teachers. Guess who one of the teacher judges is? Mr. Schick.

This seems like a pretty good chance for revenge. A little advice right now would be helpful.

Your son,

Trevor

I can still feel those red lines of pain.

Dear Trevor,

 Is it wrong to want revenge on Mr. Schick? Yes, it probably is. Does Mr. Schick deserve to have some kind of justice meted out on him? Yes, he probably does.

 But we all do. I’m getting my—what should I call it? Punishment? Comeuppance? Whatever you call it, I’m getting mine right now.

 When I was about eight years old, I tried to steal a piece of ribbon candy out of my mom’s candy jar. The candy was all stuck together and when I pulled on a piece, I lifted the whole jar off the dining room table. It crashed to the ground and shattered in a million pieces. Mom—your grandma—was in the backyard, so I grabbed a broom, swept the whole mess up and stuck it as far down into the garbage can as I could.

Your grandma discovered the missing jar after lunch when she went to calm down her sweet tooth. She asked me about it. I lied—poorly. She got the truth out of me in about thirty seconds–I didn’t learn to lie well until years later. Then grandma whipped me with a switch until my little butt was bright red. I can still feel those red lines of pain on my eight-year-old backside.

 With you and your brothers and sister, we were more “enlightened” parents. No beatings. Just time-outs. When Steffan lied to us about throwing eggs at Mrs. Johnson’s house, we sat him on the stairs for a couple of hours until he fessed up and told us the truth.

 That’s what’s happening to me right now. I’m in a time-out. Problem is I don’t know how to get out of it. I have so much to confess. Who do I tell?

 I have a great shame, Trevor. I deserve more than a time-out. Even if I confess, who could ever forgive me?

 Dad

I’d like to get him back somehow. Is that wrong?

Dear Dad,

So I had my last basketball game last night. And guess what? I played. For a total of 45 seconds.

The other team was up by about ten points. Mr. Schick called a time out. When he said I was going in, he had a big smile on his face, like he was doing me some kind of favor. Wow, how generous, Mr. Schick. Thank you for your kindness.

Donnie Joad got the throw-in and brought the ball up past halfcourt. I was open and Donnie threw the ball to me. I was gonna pass it right away, before I screwed up, but no one was open. I saw a lane to the basket, so I drove in for a layup. I went about two steps when this big, freckly gorilla on the other team slapped me right on the side of the face. I didn’t even see him until I was laying on the ground looking up at his gorilla legs.

The ref called a foul and I got two shots. I stood at the line, bouncing the ball and staring at the rim. “Screw it,” I thought and I chucked the ball toward the basket. It went in. It even made a swoosh sound. I missed the second one, but could have cared less. I made a point and figured, for a second, I was the king of just about everthing I could think of. Then Mr. Schick pulled me back out. We went on to lose the game by 13.

For the entire season I played less than one minute and I made one point. One point per minute, I figure, is better than anyone on the team.

At the end of the game, Mr. Schick had us all gather round him at the center of the court. He got all serious and held his stupid red baseball cap in both hands. He told us how proud he was of us and reminded us what a great season we had. By which I guess he means that it’s a great season when you lose three-fourths of your games. For me, the season made two things clear to me: The first is that Mr. Schick is a jerk. The second thing I can’t remember, so I guess I really just learned the one thing about Mr. Schick.

I’d like to get him back somehow. Is that wrong?

Your son,

Trevor

Everyone gets quiet and everyone waits for it.

Dear Trevor,

 Thank your mother for me for allowing us to continue.

 Your future has endless opportunities. Every day, you walk out your door into this big, smelly, beautiful world and who the hell knows what might happen to you? You might kiss a girl or get beat up. You might float your canoe down the Green River all the way to the Puget Sound.

 My fate has been simplified. I can stay here, looking out into the fog. Or I can get on the boat. I don’t want to stay. But the bloody boat and the bloody hag who steers it both repel me.

 Today I asked Gordon to join me for lunch at the Laughing Gull. I knew the fish and chips would be bland as ever, but I wanted the sensation of chewing at least. Gordon and I walked down to the restaurant in silence. I never noticed before how quiet Gordon is. I guess that when Carl was here, I could take Gordon in smaller doses. Now I depend on his company, but there’s not much to it. He was a professor, but he’s no longer luminary, if you know what I mean. He doesn’t exactly glow with wisdom. He’s like a book of quotations. Classical sound bites. They sound smarter than they really are. Even so, I wish he would say more of them. I wish he would say more of anything.

 While we were chewing away, the well-dressed black man came in and sat with us. He ordered a cup of coffee, then cringed as he said the words. He looked out the window into the fog. “When does it come back?”

 “The boat? You’ll know when it’s coming back.”

 “How?”

 “Everyone knows. And everyone gets quiet and everyone waits for it.”

 “Terminat hora diem. Terminat auctor opus,” said Gordon.

 “Huh?” said the well-dressed black man.

 “The hour finishes the day; the author finishes his work.”

 “What the hell’s that mean? What work?”

 “Just ignore him,” I said, even though I had the same questions.

 Dad

I’ll wait to hear from you. I’m good at waiting.

Dear Trevor,

Have fun at the water park..

I’m back to my old routine for now, except that Carl is no longer part of it. Martin is gone. Julia was only here for a short time, but I miss her, too.

It’s down to Gordon, Sung-Hee, me, and a few newcomers I don’t have the energy to get to know. I see them wandering between the cabins or loitering at The Laughing Gull. One—a youngish black man with the nicest suit I’ve seen up here—came to ask me about The Woods. Sung-Hee had told him I’d been there.

“It’s nothing,” was my reply to his questions.

“But can’t you tell me about it?”

“I just did.”

Gordon has become my most common companion. I’m grateful for him. When I told him about Carl, he listened silently. When I stopped talking, he was quiet for a long time. We both were. He finally whispered, “pulvis et umbra sumus.” I didn’t ask him what it meant. I think I know.

I’ll wait to hear from you. I’m good at waiting.

Dad

I hope you let the letters continue, Ev.

Dear Trevor,
 
I was kind of hoping Evelyn would say hello. But I understand I’m in no position to ask for anything. I’ve invaded her home without her permission. I’ve taken advantage of her hospitality.
 
It probably seems pretty bizarre, too. In her position, I would likely assume the letters were all fake. All the work of some sort of sick predator or some other weird thing. It would be hard work making me believe that they could actually be coming from beyond the grave. I’ve never been very good at believing. The funny thing is that I’m still not. I mean, I’m here. I’m in it. I am officially supernatural now and I still doubt.
 
Your mom, on the other hand, has always actively looked for the miraculous. Evelyn, you’ve always seen every green light or tax rebate as the active hand of God. When Rhonda had so many heart problems as a baby, I saw them as a curse. You saw each day she didn’t die as a miracle.
 
No wonder I miss you so.

I hope you let the letters continue, Ev. This is a shot for me, you know, to do something for this kid of mine. Or maybe that’s not right. Maybe it’s a shot for him to do something for me. I don’t really know. I certainly don’t pretend to have any deep words of wisdom. I’m just trying to figure out my thing and he’s trying to do the same. But, you know, if a brother stumbles and all that.

Your call, though.

Dad (Hugh)

I had this talk with Mom.

Dear Dad,

 Mom showed me the letter you wrote to her. That one freaked her out as much as opening your first letter did. It kind of freaked me out, too, because I kind of get it now that Mom is a real person. I mean, she is a person who you miss when you’re not around her. You do, I mean.

 Mom also said I could write you back. And she said she wouldn’t read what I wrote. So here goes:

 A week and a half ago, I had this talk with Mom. The two of us went to Round Table Pizza, which is kind of our place. It’s weird to have a place you go with your mom, but I do. We ordered—plain cheese for me, salad bar for her, but I know she’ll eat some of my pizza. Then she got right down to it.

 “Trevor,” she said, “I wanted to talk to you about, well, about me, I suppose. About my life.”

 I think I probably looked surprised, because the skin on my face felt stretched tight.

 Mom continued, as she polished a little grime off her fork. “I’ve been seeing someone, you know. John. The cabinetmaker, as Rhonda calls him.” I nodded. Mom said, “I like him. He’s nice to me. He lives just up the hill, kind of by Woodmont Elementary. He’s kind of dashing, in a cabinetmaker sort of way. I can imagine being his—being his girl or whatever.”

 “He have any kids?”

 “Three, but all grown and mostly out of the house. His youngest is the same age as Keith. I’ve met them. He told me they like me.” She kind of blushed. “His daughter thinks he should ask me to—but none of that really matters, Trev. Because I’m—I’m not going to see him anymore.”

“Why?”

 “Oh.” Mom put the fork down and started polishing the knife. “I told him earlier today over the phone. I hope it wasn’t rude to do it over the phone.” She didn’t say anything for a bit, then said, “I already have a man in my life. Men, I mean. You and Rhett. And Rhonda, too. You’re all still so much in my life. In our home.”

 “Yeah, but, if you want to—“

 “No, it’s just too complicated, Trevor. Too soon. Honestly, I never planned on seeing anyone. Then Keith and Steffan moved out and I could feel—I could feel what it might be like when you all left. It scared me. I like a loud house. I like someone to play rummy with. Someone to cook for. But it’s too early, Trevor. So I’m going to wait a few more years. I’m warning you now, though. It’s coming. And you’re the youngest. My baby. So you’ll have to put up with more of it than the others. You’ll probably be around to see it. My dating years.”

 I told her if she waited, the cabinetmaker would probably go find someone else. She didn’t say anything. She stood up and walked to the salad bar and took a long time choosing her dressing. When she came back, we talked some more. She asked me if I was interested in any girls. I said no. I said I tried that earlier in the year and it was pretty dumb. I said I guessed I was going to wait a few more years, too.

 “And I’ll be around to see it,” she said. Mom does this sort of wink thing when she thinks she’s made a joke, except instead of winking, she opens her eyes even farther and kind of nods at you.

 I asked her if she ever thought of you, of how you might feel if she dated. She said she thought about you all the time, especially when she thought about other men, which makes a weird kind of sense. It worried her, I thought, so I told her not to—worry, I mean. I said I was pretty sure Dad was the kind of guy who would want you to get out and get busy. Woah. That does not sound right. Get busy living, I mean. Yeesh.

 It was a good talk, even though it really wore me out. I felt like how you feel after crying, all kind of wilty. When we came home, we sat and watched a nature show on TV together. Mom loves nature shows. She usually says how amazing every little critter or plant is, but tonight she didn’t say much. Either did I. But it was good to sit there with her, I guess.

 So that’s the talk.

 We’re still working out this letter writing thing. I think she’s still trying to figure it out. So maybe be a bit careful in what you say in the next letter, OK?

 Your son,

 Trevor

Hi. I miss you.

Dear Ev -

Hi. I miss you.

Hugh

I’m gonna do whatever she asks me to do.

Dear Dad,

 I’m back to writing to you, at least for now.

 The day before the father/son basketball game, I started feeling kind of sick when I was at school. Queasy sick. I ran out of social studies to the boys’ room, because I thought I was gonna barf. I managed to hold it in, but I skipped basketball practice and went right home with Rhett and Rhonda. I had to run in the house from Rhett’s car and barely made it to the bathroom before I totally blew. It was gross.

 I was really sick all that night. So sick that Mom stayed home from work the next day. I was either barfing or sleeping all day long. It was pretty awful. I fell asleep around 10 a.m. and when I finally woke up, Mom was sitting on the side of my bed, reading one of your letters she’d got out of the mailbox. The first time she’d got to the mail before me since this whole thing started. She kept reading it and then rereading it. She kept sticking it in the envelope and then taking it back out. She mostly looked really confused.

 My head was really fuzzy from being sick and I think I did a crummy job explaining to her what was going on. Mom mostly just sat there staring down at the letter. She said something about talking more later and left. I kind of fell back asleep, but mostly just layed there wondering what Mom must think, wondering if it would mean the end of our letters, wondering how weird it must all look to Mom, me getting letters from her dead husband.

 I asked her if I could write back to you. She said she’d have to think about it.

 I’ve been really sick then. Really. I mean, no faking or anything. I’ve had this fever of about 103 until this morning. I totally missed the father-son game. I haven’t been to school all week. Today is the first day I’ve felt anything even slightly like a human. The whole time, I’ve been having these weird fever-y dreams about you and mom and this guy mom was dating and all the stuff in our letters. Not dreams, really. Just jumbles of images and stuff.

 Mom stayed home with me all the week. I’m not sure if it was to take care of me or just to get the mail. She read the other letters you sent during that time. She let me read them too, but not until today. She hasn’t asked anything about what was in the letters or asked to see any of the other ones you sent. I’ve got a drawer full of them. I suppose I’d show them to her if she asked, but she hasn’t asked yet and I haven’t offered them. She has asked how long this has been going on. When I told her, she kind of sucked in her breath like I hit her in the stomach, but she didn’t say anything. No crying or anything, either.

 I’m gonna do whatever she asks me to do, Dad. If she asks me to stop writing to you, I think I’d even do that. See Mom and I had this big talk, right before I got sick. It was kind of a big deal. I still need to tell you about that, if Mom will let me write you again. For now, she said I should write you this letter and tell you not to worry about me. Let you know I was still alive and all that. So that’s what I’m doing now. She’s gonna read this before I send it.

 I’m not sure what happens next.

 Your son,

 Trevor

I’d rather go down in blood than go down beneath the moss.

Dear Trevor,

 I still haven’t heard from you. It makes me nervous. Your letters were the only rhythm to my rhythm-less existence.

 Even the silent postman seems a bit shaken. You’ve become part of his rhythm, too. When I walked in to his tiny post office a few hours ago, his face had an actual expression on it for the first time that I can remember. It wasn’t quite sorrow. It was more nervousness, I think.

 The smell of blood drew me away from Carl’s numb side and back to this seaside town. I knew what it was from the first subtle scent. It was that bloody boat. Just the smell of it made the woods seem even more dead—more lacking in sensation.

 I stumbled out of the trees into the dim light of this place. I followed the smell down to the pier, just in time to see the boat pulling away from the dock. Sung-Hee came out of her restaurant, wiping her hands on her dingy apron. She looked at me with only the slightest of interest. Then she turned and walked back inside—she had two new customers on whom she could foist her miserable coffee.

 The boat still terrifies me, but it pulls on me, too. I think it is the only choice I have here. Because I can’t stay in this in-between town. And now I know what the woods are. They’re death. They’re hell. So what does that make the boat?

 If it’s heaven, it’s a terrible kind of heaven. If it takes me to another level of hell, at least it’s a hell with some kind of something. I mean it’s not nothing. It may be all blood and violence, but I tell you, Trevor, that scares me less than those woods. I’d rather go down in blood than go down beneath the moss.

 Trevor, write me back. I’m on the brink. I need to hear from you.

 Dad

Those mounds—they were everywhere.

Dear Trevor,

 I want to hear about your conversation with Mom. If I have to tell you more about the woods to do so, here it is:

 As we stumbled along through the heavy moss, I had to badger Carl at every step, just to get him to continue. I thought about just taking him back to the town, as he was slowing me down, but I didn’t want to be in the woods alone. If I’d taken him back, he’d still be—alive, I suppose, is the closest word. He’d be one degree less dead.

 At one point, I let Carl rest for a couple of minutes. He wanted to sit down, but I told him to lean against a tree. When he complained, I told him about Martin. That shut him up. We sat there in the woods, listening to Carl’s heavy breathing and the drips falling off the trees. “Come on,” I said, tugging at Carl’s arm.

 “My feet are stuck,” he said. I yanked him free. It took a mighty pull.

 We walked on—I have no idea how long. Time barely exists in this land. In the forest, it seems to stop altogether. There was no trail. There was no sun. I tried to keep walking straight, but the ground was so lumpy with moss and moss-covered mounds that I had no idea which way I was going. I’ve always had a lousy sense of direction anyway.

 Those mounds—they were everywhere. They reminded me of moss-covered anthills.

 Carl was about to collapse when I heard the sound of running water. I pulled Carl forward, my hand holding his, and we followed the sound. The ground sloped down until we came to the edge of the chasm. We’d reached the river, but at a different spot than I’d come to before. I had no idea if I was upstream or downstream from where I’d left Martin and Julia. I guessed and we turned left and began walking downstream along the chasm.

 “How far are we going to go?” asked Carl. I didn’t answer, because I didn’t know. The ground continued to slope downward, following the flow of the river. None of it looked familiar to me. Near the bank of the river, the moss was even thicker and the mossy mounds crowded even closer together.

 I was looking along the bank for any sign that looked familiar. I was looking across the chasm for any hint of Julia’s presence. On the far side, I saw what looked like movement. I shouted, “Julia! Is that you?”

 “Help me!” shouted a man’s voice. “I’m alone!”

 “I’m alone!” shouted another voice from across the chasm, a woman this time. “Someone please help me!” I could make out their shapes on the far side of the chasm, but couldn’t see their faces.

 “Have you seen Julia?” I shouted. My question sounded stupid as it left my lips. I knew before they responded that they would have no information.

 “Is someone there?” shouted the man in reply.

 Another voice—a much younger man—shouted in response. “I heard something! Someone please help me! I’m so alone!” I could see the shapes, standing nearly shoulder to shoulder, crying out for help, for company. But I could make out no way to get across the chasm. Even if I saw a way, I don’t think I’d ever have tried it.

 Then I heard Julia. “Help me!” she cried. “If you’re there, please help me!” I could see her in the dim light, looking blindly around.

 Carl’s head jerked briefly at her cry. He looked over at her halfheartedly. “I suppose we should do something.” He sat down. “I’m so tired.”

 I yanked Carl to his feet, Trevor. I pulled him away from the bank. I gave up on Julia. My intention—the most I knew I could do right then—was to try to save Carl and myself.

 I failed Carl. I saved myself. Or, I should say, my self was saved.

That’s enough for now.

 Dad

We can’t sit down. If you stop in here, you’re through.

Dear Trevor,

Yeah, Donnie is a smart dork. He’s right. You need to do stuff.

That’s what the woods are all about—doing or not doing. That’s what this whole thing is all about. That’s the choice, I think. To do or not do. Being is not enough. Doing is what is required.

Carl and I walked into the woods, hoping to follow my old footprints back to Martin and Julia. I’d given up hope on Martin. I assumed he’d turned to peat by now. A rotten log for growing moss. I still held to the chance that Julia could be found and somehow rescued. I hoped that Carl’s presence would give me the courage to find a way to bring her back.

My trail was long gone, grown over by moss. I suppose a better tracker would have been able to find it, but I think a real woodsman would never end up where I am. He would know where he was going and have arrived there long ago. That’s why I’m here. I don’t yet know where I’m going, but I’m starting to figure it out.

With no trail, my only hope was to guess well, but all those moss-covered trees looked the same. Carl kept asking me the same basic questions over and over: “Are you sure this is the right way?” “Is this the same way you came last time?” “Does this way look familiar to you?” But I didn’t tell him to shut up, because the sound of his annoying voice was still better than nothing. I just kind of mumbled back to him while I wandered along.

And I wondered, sometimes aloud, if the woods were designed that way on purpose. “I bet there isn’t meant to be a destination,” I said to myself.

“Wh—what?” Carl huffed as he talked. The moss was heavy and hard to walk in.

“I think that’s the point, Carl. There’s no end here. There’s just journey. It’s like that old cliché—the journey is the destination.”

“I always—liked that saying.”

“Yes, but if there is no destination, than the journey becomes meaningless. The journey becomes wandering. It becomes literally pointless. That’s what the woods are, I’ll bet.”

“I’m tired,” Carl said. “Can we—sit down for a bit?”

“No!” I replied. “We can’t sit down. If you stop in here, you’re through.”

“Just—for a minute,” said Carl.

“No!” I shouted, but my voice seemed muffled. “Shut up and keep going, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

My bullying only worked for so long, Trevor. I’ll tell you more tomorrow. Right how I need to get my head out of the woods for a while. Even thinking about that place is deadly.

Dad

Donnie’s a dork and all. But kind of a smart dork.

Dear Dad,

Goodness. Your letters lately really freak me out. I hope you’re done with the woods.

I don’t know if you’ve read all my letters yet, but I want to tell you about this day I spent fishing with Donnie. I’ve always thought Donnie was kind of a goof. The type of guy who never plans ahead and just kind of wanders around doing what he wants to right then. I’m not sure I still feel that way.

Donnie spent the night last Friday. His mom dropped him off after the basketball game I didn’t play in. We ate frozen pizzas—we cooked them first!—and then watched TV. We didn’t stay up very late this time, so the shows didn’t get very scary.

Donnie woke me up really early in the morning and we scarfed down some Cheerios—Donnie puts a ton of sugar on his Cheerios, by the way—and then went down to the beach. We rowed the aluminum boat out to the buoy line and tied off and then started fishing. Actually, Donnie started fishing. I dropped a line over the side and went back to sleep. I was all bundled up in ski clothes and it was still pretty much dark out. It felt kind of nice to nod off in a rocking boat.

I woke up about an hour later when the sun was really shining. Donnie hadn’t caught anything yet, but he said he’d had about a million bites. I said, “Yeah, but you haven’t caught anything.” He said, “Yeah, but at least I’m trying. Just like at school.” I said, “What’s that supposed to mean?

“I don’t know,” Donnie said. “You just kind of drift along.”

“That’s because it’s so stupid.”

“Yeah, maybe, but you’re there. And you can’t change that. So…”

“So what?”

“So, like, I’ve had three girlfriends this year—“

“And that seems smart to you?”

“I’m not talking about smart. I’m talking about—I don’t know. I’m talking about, you know, about doing stuff instead of not doing stuff. I’m doing stuff.”

“Yeah. Stupid stuff like having three girlfriends who are all stupid.”

“That’s not cool. And anyway, I’d rather have three stupid girlfriends than no girldfriends.”

“I had a girlfriend.”

“Yeah. Misty Lee. And you’re saying she wasn’t stupid?”

“No, she was definitely stupid.” We both laughed at that one. Which was kind of a relief, because we were both getting pissed at each other.

Anyway, Donnie’s a dork and all. But I think he said some kind of smart stuff, in his own dorky way.

Right about then I got a bite on my line. I pulled in this nasty looking flounder. I was about to throw it back when Donnie told me to keep it. “It’s better than nothing,” he said.

Your son,

Trevor

It was a horror, albeit a slow, conversational one.

Dear Trevor,

O Carl, I miss you, too. Yours is a face that’s smoked 10,000 cigarettes. You told the same stories of closing deals on suburban split-levels until I wanted to punch you in the mouth. You were unable to make even the simplest decision. And you were the best friend I had since I died.

Carl is still in there, Trevor. Right where I left him. I stayed by him for what must have been many days, trying to get him to come back with me. He simply couldn’t decide what to do. So he did nothing. And now, like Martin, he’s turning back into nothing. Or into compost. His elements are coming unlimbed and unchained.

I know what happened to Martin now, because Carl showed me. It was a horror, albeit a slow, conversational one. The kind of horror that might happen over an afternoon of television and sandwiches. It was just as final and just as eternal.

I’ll tell you more tomorrow, Trevor. I’ll tell you everything.

Dad

I have a lot to tell you.

Dear Dad,

Wow. It’s good to hear your voice. Or read your words. You’re actually back. Which means you’re actually there.

I have all your old letters, but there was this part of me that thought maybe I’d imagined our whole penpal thing. But there you are. And here’s another letter from you. And this is one from me. So it must all be real.

I’m really sorry about Carl. I really liked him. Is he gone for good? That sounded cold. I don’t mean it to. I don’t need to ask you any questions about Carl. Just know that I am sorry.

But I do want to know what happened. To you. In the woods. And please don’t ever go back there.

I have a lot to tell you. Donnie Joad and I went fishing and had a big talk. Then Mom and I went out for dinner and had another big talk. It’s been an exhausting weekend. But I guess I think maybe you should do some of the talking now. All I really want to say today is that I’m so happy or relieved or whatever to hear from you.

I think that’s enough for now. You’ve got plenty to read as it is.

Your son,

Trevor

I don’t want Mr. Schick exposing himself to me.

Dear Dad,

I told Mom I wasn’t going to play in the father-son basketball game. She frowned at me.

“Why do you want me to play in it?” I said.

“Because,” she said, “A boy needs to have a father figure in his life.”

“And you think—you think if I play in this game—“

“I don’t know, Trevor. I want you to be around some good adult males. They can give you things that I can’t.”

“I don’t even know any of these people. Except Mr. Schick. And he’s a complete—“

“—I think you need to give Mr. Schick a chance.”

“What?!”

“OK, maybe you’ve given him enough chances already. But there are bound to be other fathers there.”

“And? You think I should go up to them in the gym and ask them to take me out for ice cream?”

“Don’t get smart. I just want to make sure you’re getting exposed to male role models.”

All I could think about right then was taking a shower in the men’s locker room at the Y. “Like Mr. Schick? I don’t want Mr. Schick exposing any more of himself to me. Besides, I’ve got you and I’ve got older brothers and I’ve got Dad.”

“What do you mean, you’ve got Dad?”

“I’ve—I mean—he’s.” I took a breath. “I’m OK, Mom. I’m fine. Just don’t make me play in that game.”

She looked at me all heartbroken-like, with her eyes full to the brim and her hands grabbing at her sleeves.

“Let me think about it, OK?”

“OK.” That usually meant she would agree with me. I hope that’s what it meant this time.

I also hope you write me back tomorrow, Dad. I’m getting used to your being gone again. Is this permanent? Are you ever going to write?

Your son,

Trevor

I started rooting for the dogs to win.

Dear Dad,

You’ve been gone too long and I’m really starting to get nervous. Part of my brain figures you’re never coming back. The other part reassures me that you will, any minute.

We had another away game on Friday. I didn’t go again, which sucks, but I’m starting to realize the whole team is pretty crappy and Mr. Schick is a dork, so I don’t really care that much. At least I knew ahead of time, so I went home with Rhett right after school, instead of having to wait around for a ride.

Donnie Joad’s mom dropped him off at our house after the game and we hung out. Donnie really likes to stay up late. Whenever he is at any kind of a sleepover, he figures the point of the whole thing is to see how late you can stay up.

Personally, I can’t stay up late to save my life, no matter how hard I try. If we’re just sitting around watching TV, I start nodding off at about ten and go in and out of sleep for a couple of hours.

At ten, Mom was in bed, so we started watching some stupid movie about hot looking teenagers who go to an island where they start getting attacked by wild dogs. It’s pretty much the stupidest movie ever made. The humans are all dumb. A girl gets bitten by a rabid dog, but decides she doesn’t need to go to a hospital. Instead, she should make out with some guy in the dark while dogs are trying to kill them. The dogs are way smarter. They know how to untie knots with their teeth. The dogs untie all the boats so the teens can’t get off the island.

I started rooting for the dogs to win, then I started falling asleep. Every time I would jerk awake, some dog would be ripping some dumb, sexy teen’s throat to pieces. It really started freaking me out. And I was sleeping on a chair, which was really uncomfortable. Donnie stayed awake the whole time and thought I did, too, because he talked to me even when my eyes were shut. That’s because he never took his eyes off the screen to notice anything else.

Finally, I woke up and the TV was showing an infomercial about a cool-looking vacuum cleaner. Donnie was sleeping on the floor, right in front of the blaring TV. I turned down the volume, switched to the couch, watched the vacuum cleaner thing for a couple minutes, then went to sleep for good.

Mom never mentioned her date. She made a really big dinner Sunday and Steffan and Keith came home and ate with us. I figure the delicious food was to make up for her going out with some guy we don’t know. But the food was really good. Roast beef and mashed potatoes and gravy and rolls and pink Jell-o salad and nasty green beans. Yummm.

I feel like I’m just kind of rambling, mostly because I’m just talking to myself. When are you going to write back?

Your son,

Trevor

When she doesn’t look stupid, she looks kind of wise.

Dear Dad,

I’m starting to get nervous that you haven’t come back yet. I thought this trip into the woods would be shorter, since you should kind of know where you’re going this time.

If I don’t have you writing me letters, I’m glad I have this old black dog. She’s not really old, but she’s already gray around her mouth. And she lays her head on her front paws and stares right into my eyes. So when she doesn’t look stupid, she looks kind of wise. Or understanding. At least she pays attention. When I talk to her, she hangs on every single word. I know this is mostly her listening for words like “walk” or “snack,” but I still like it. I can talk to her abour Mr. Schick (the fathead), you (the stiff) and whether or not Mom is dating (the mystery).

Mom was right about this dog. Everyone needs a companion. I guess she needs one, too.

I asked Rhett if he thought Mom wanted to date. He kind of blew me off, because he was walking out the door to some mysterious thing. He was eating leftover spaghetti out of a tupperware container as he walked. He said, “Mom? Date?” Then he sucked up more spaghetti as he opened the front door with his hip and walked out. Halfway out the door, he stopped and said, “Huh.”

Boy, it’s great to have such a wise older brother.

Your son,

Trevor

She claps her hands once and then pumps one fist into the air.

Dear Dad,

Are you gone back into the woods?

Another weekend. Another basketball game I didn’t play in. Not even close to getting in this time, as the score was back and forth the whole game. We lost by three.

Mr. Schick must think I should be happy just to be on the team. Like it’s some great honor or something. He’s kind of right, I guess. I am glad I didn’t get cut. But it sucks to just sit there on the bench. And close games are the ones I want to be part of. I want to be in the heat of the battle, you know? I want some of the blood that’s shed to be mine.

You were talking about purpose. I’m not sure what the purpose of the team is. Is it to bring glory to Mr. Schick? No one gives a crap if his team wins or loses and no one like him, because he’s a total dorkus. Is it to bring glory to the school? Because hardly anyone goes to the games. Parents go. And a few kids who are all into school spirit or some weird thing like that. There’s this one girl—Greta Glaspar—she’s at every game. She sits all alone right behind our bench and cheers like crazy. “Come on, Warriors! Whoo-hoo!” And she does this weird clap-pump thing. She claps her hands once and then pumps one fist into the air. Clap-pump!

Maybe she’s practicing to be a cheerleader. I suppose ugly girls can dream, too. Boy, that sounded harsh.

I’m pretty sure the idea behind junior high school sports is that it’s for the kids, right? I’m a kid, aren’t I? Doesn’t that mean I should get to play, too? What they really mean is that sports are for the athletic kids—not all the kids. The jocks play more and get better. The clods play less and get worse. We all learn our places, I suppose.

Your son the clod,

Trevor

Count on my return, Trevor.

Dear Trevor,

I’m scribbling this note to you and dropping it off at the post office as Carl and I get ready to head back into the woods.

Carl is tagging after me like a faithful mutt, waiting for me to give him a command. It’s strange. Once I gave him one order of leaving with me today, our relationship has changed. He looks to me for direction. I think it feels natural to him, to not have to think for himself. I understand that. This is not a place that encourages thinking, at least not without great effort.

I expect that I will come back, Trevor. I am nearly certain the woods are not for me, but I need to realize what they are for. They must have a purpose. There must be purpose, mustn’t there? I mean, even this purposeless place must play a role in the long stumble of our souls.

I hope we can somehow find Julia again and bring her back, but I only have the littlest bit of faith that will happen. Between you and me, it’s not my main purpose forgoing back in. If you had seen Julia and heard the chords her voice struck, you would understand what I mean. I don’t think there is any coming back for her.

Gordon came to see us off, holding his empty pipe in his hand for comfort, tapping the bowl and probably wishing hard for tobacco. “Post tenebras spero lucem,” he said to us. “After darkness, I hope for light.” I hope for light, too. I hope for something. Something other than what I have now.

Count on my return, Trevor.

Dad

You bend everything into a dirty joke.

Dear Dad,

I wish you weren’t going back into the woods. But I’m glad Carl is going with you.

I kind of like Carl. He reminds me of the kind of friends I imagine you having, if you were still alive. A guy your age who would come over and help you build a fence and maybe give me sips of his beer when Mom wasn’t looking. I’d call him Uncle Carl even if he wasn’t really my uncle and he’d call me Trevorino or T-Dog or Sport-O and we’d punch each other on the arms.

Mom’s church friends don’t drink much beer. None of them have ever called me T-Dog.

If you had any of those friends when you were still alive, none of them are coming around anymore. None of them come around to take me out to breakfast or ask me about girls. That’s probably OK. It would just be weird anyway and I would feel strange going out to breakfast with some old guy.

I do kind of wish there was someone I could talk with about girls. They still pretty much scare me for the most part. Most of them, anyway. There are a few rare girls who don’t bring fear with them when they walk into a room. But most do.

I went roller skating a few weeks ago with some guys from school. It was for Gabe McCallister’s birthday party. His mom took us. I wonder if his mom knows that Gabe McCallister has a condom in his wallet. I bet she doesn’t, because she took us all to McDonald’s and bought us all Happy Meals, like we were kindergarteners or something. It was kind of cool, though, because we had a bunch of us guys making jokes about the little toys we got with the food. They were these chubby little space aliens with long, bendable arms. Gabe McCallister bent the arms of his aliens into dirty shapes, if you can believe it.

That’s what you do in junior high school. You bend everything into a dirty joke. Everything.

I was actually one of the best skaters. I’m pretty good at stuff that no one cares about. Gabe McCallister sucks at skating. He can barely let go of the wall. But somehow, he makes being a bad skater cool. One time, he wobbled his way across the rink right into a crowd of girls. He knocked one of them down and they laid there, tangled on the floor, laughing away. A few minutes later, that girl was guiding Gabe around the floor, holding hands with him.

How does he do that? If a girl asked me to hold hands with her, I’d probably barf all over the rink.

If you’ve left already, I hope you come back soon.

Your son,

Trevor

Carl, you’re coming with me. We leave tomorrow.

Dear Trevor,

I told Carl today about Julia. It wasn’t until I received your letter that I realized I hadn’t told anyone. And the thought that perhaps I could get someone to go with me into the woods is a great relief. Assuming anyone in this town will go with me.

Carl was shocked, of course. How could he not be? I’m not certain he believes my story. He kept looking up toward the woods while I was talking. When I got to the part about Julia, he asked the same two questions that have been running through my head:

“How did she get across the chasm? How could you just leave her there?”

I told him I was going back. He said, “She could be dead by now.” I smiled grimly and asked him to come with me. He said nothing for a while. I asked him for an answer. He looked up at me without replying.

Right then I came to a realization. In this little town, the ruling authority is apathy. Nothing is what we do every day. We are deep into that ditch. If Carl had been capable of making a decision, he wouldn’t still be here. I realized right then he was no longer capable, so I took a different approach. I said, “Carl, you’re coming with me. We leave tomorrow.” He looked up at me and nodded. So I guess that settles it.

Now Trevor, about this basketball team you’re on. I want to hear more about it. I reread your recent letters and agree with you on one thing: Mr. Schick sounds like a real jerk. But if I was there with you, I still think I’d let you deal with him on your own. He is your dragon to slay, not mine. Should you stick it out or quit? Your call, my son.

When I was your age, I was no great athlete. I ran track in high school and did OK in that, even if I never loved it. I played a little soccer as well. I remember struggling through sports all during my high school years, wishing I was the boy that quickened schoolgirl hearts when a ball sprung from my instep and rocketed 18 yards past a helpless goalkeeper. But my body would never cooperate with my fantasies.

During my second year in college, I joined an intramural soccer team—men and women and just for fun. I mostly did it to meet girls. But playing then, when I was 19 and out of high school—something happened. My body began to cooperate. The ball went where I wanted it to. I could dribble down the field with my head up. I could see the channels for passing. I knew when to make a break. People noticed. No coaches came calling. But I was good. I was finally good.

And it no longer mattered.

I still remember the day I realized it, when I bobbed my head left, kicked right through two defenders and shot the ball into the back of the goal, feeling relaxed and in control the whole time. I laughed out loud because I realized the cosmic joke of the whole thing. No girls sighed. High school was over already. So much of life is about timing.

Here’s another joke for you. You and I have finally connected. Unfortunately, you’re still alive and I’m dead.

Dad

Brian is only kind of a loser.

Dear Dad,

Your story about the woods is still pretty much freaking me out. I’m glad you came back. It sounds awful in there. I hope you never go back. I noticed twice that you said you planned on returning. To save Julia? Don’t do it.

What have you told the others in town? Why can’t someone go back with you? I don’t think you should go alone.

You’ll be happy to know that I survived the weekend—including a completely non-eventful Valentine’s Day—with no issues. In elementary school—even in sixth grade—we exchanged valentines, which I always thought was pretty stupid, but it was still fun. Bee mine with a picture of a bee and that sort of stupidness. In junior high you don’t do anything fun. No recess and no valentines. One lousy teacher, Mr. Anders, mentioned Valentine’s Day at all. And all he did was talk about the origins of the holiday. He said that Saint Valentine was some guy who was killed for his Christian faith way back in like 200 A.D. The whole romance thing didn’t start until more than a thousand years later. That’s it. Then we went back to Washington State history and talked about the terminus of the railroad. Woohoo.

Thanks for making it such a special day, Mr. Anders!

No girls gave me any cards. I saw quite a few floating around the school, but none came my way. Donnie Joad got one from his old girlfriend, Jodi. He tore it up and threw it back at her. She ran away and started bawling.

“I was just trying to tell her I didn’t like her,” Donnie said. “I don’t know why she had to get so upset about it.”

Donnie’s kind of a dork. I think he felt pretty bad. Poor Jodi. She felt worse. In junior high, everyone gets their fair share of pain.

Brian Haase and I talked at lunch today about the stupid basketball team. Other than being with Brian, I still kind of hate basketball. Maybe that’s Mr. Schick’s evil plan. Maybe his goal as coach is to see how many kids he can get to hate the sport. Maybe he actually works for the NFL or something, and his job is to make kids hate basketball and play football instead.

Here’s a question for you. If Brian and I become friends just because we’re the worst players on the team, is that lame? Does that make me more of a loser?

Brian is only kind of a loser. He has cool parts to him, like he is totally into cars. He always has a car magazine with him and he gets mad if you bend the pages. I’m pretty sure he is actually really interested in the cars, but those magazines have some amazingly hot girls in them, with huge boobs.

Brian can recognize any car in two seconds. When we were sitting on the sidewalk in front of the school the other day, he would see a car go by and say, “2002 Mazda 3. 1.6 liter engine with a dual hemi thingamajig.” Of course, he could be making it all up, for all I know. But he sure sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.

Anyway, Brian and I talked about quitting the team to protest being left behind last Friday. But then Brian said that Mr. Schick would probably be glad that we quit. So we decided to stay on the team just to piss Mr. Schick off.

I think it’s a pretty good idea. We’ll see if he notices.

Your son,

Trevor

I heard Julia crying out from the other side of the chasm.

Dear Trevor,

One of the things most frustrating about dying of cancer was how much of my focus was taken up with my own pain. Pain was always yammering for my attention. So when Steffan or Keith would come home from school and want to talk about a girl or a bad grade, I didn’t have much left to give. I’d say, “Hey kiddo, how was your day?” And when one would ask me how mine was, I’d force a smile and say, “Not bad, not bad.” A son of mine would tell me what happened at school and I’d raise and lower my eyebrows and nod my head at the right places.

But they could tell I wasn’t really listening. It was hard to listen to a whisper about a social studies class when my guts were yelling so loud all the time.

That’s how I feel right now. I don’t want to be phony with you and say, “Mmm, basketball…nice. Good job.” I want to really listen. I may have to go back and reread your letters in a few days. Right now, it’s hard for me to focus on anything other than what happened in the woods. The memories are still shouting at me.

Back in the woods, I was sitting next to the motionless form of Martin. I heard Julia crying out from the other side of the chasm. “Julia!” I yelled.

“I heard a voice!” she yelled.

“It’s Hugh,” I said. “What happened to Martin?”

“Help me!” she cried in return. “I’m all alone.”

I repeated my question, but she only cried for help in return. I turned to the body beside me. Martin was still breathing shallowly, with a faint gurgle. I yelled his name right into his ear, but he didn’t respond. I shook him, pulling the moss from his face and torso. No response.

Martin’s skin was pockmarked where the moss had been. The moss had begun taking root. He was host to its parasite. I slapped him hard, knocking spittle from his open mouth. I screamed his name at him, but I may as well have been screaming at a log. I slapped him again. Nothing. I laid him tenderly back on the ground. He settled back into his body-shaped dent.

I stood up and stumbled through the thick moss toward the edge of the chasm. I nearly tripped, which would have sent me falling plunging into the dark. I stopped and stared down toward the roaring river, but the chasm was so deep that I could not see the bottom.

“I’m here,” I called to Julia.

“Help me,” she called back. “I’m alone.”

“How can I reach you?” I asked.

“I’m alone!” she cried.

“How do I get across?”

“I’m alone!”

Trevor, I couldn’t stand to hear those words anymore—the insane repetition. I hated the reminder of my loneliness. I couldn’t stand to remain by that comatose body in the moss. I fled. I left her there. I turned and ran, following my own footprints in the moss, through the woods, back through the darkness toward town.

Enough for today.

Dad

We watched the Schickhead Express drive away.

Dear Dad,

I didn’t mean to sound like a total jerk in my last letter. You’ve been through some pretty serious crap. I get that. Thanks for telling me a few more details. And please let me know what happened next. You’re still leaving me hanging.

Down here, I want you to know that not all my days are crummy. I mean, I think junior high school pretty much blows, but I don’t want you to think I hate every minute of my life.

That said, today pretty much sucked. I showed up for school, thinking I’d have a basketball game afterwards. It was an away game, so I figured we’d all be piling into the bus and driving there together. After science, I walked to the locker room to change into my uniform. Everyone else on the team was already there, getting dressed, snapping towels, making rude jokes. So I started getting dressed, too. I was stripped down to my boxers when Mr. Schick came said, “Brian and Trevor, can you come here a minute?”

As Brian Haase and I walked over to Mr. Schick, the locker room grew quiet. The jokes stopped. The towels stopped snapping. The eighth graders pretended to keep getting dressed, but they were all looking our direction. The kind and gentle Mr. Schick said, “Fellas, we’ve got an away game today, as you know. Unfortunately, we don’t have access to the bus for basketball, because the high school is using it. That means we’re taking the Ford Econoline.”

For some reason, Mr. Schick thought I cared about the brand of our school van. Brian and I stared dumbly at Mr. Schick. He finally said, “The Econoline only has seating for 14.”

We stared some more, but I heard a few painful “oohs” from the kids behind me.

“We’ve got 15 players on our team, plus me. That means two of us will have to take one for the team and stay home.”

It was starting to make sense right about then.

“But don’t think I don’t value your contribution to the team. And next week’s a home game, so we’ll get you right back in there. OK, fellas?”

I’m pretty sure I heard Donnie Joad say, “Holy crap.” Brian Haase and I walked back to our lockers and changed into our street clothes. I borrowed Donnie Joad’s cell phone and called my mom to come and get me, but she was stuck at work. She said she’d leave a message for Rhett. Brian and I sat on the sidewalk in front of the school. We watched the Schickhead Express drive away, then sat there waiting for our rides.

“That Mr. Schick is a real dillrod,” said Brian. I agreed. I was glad Brian was there. I mean, it totally sucked at an unbelievable level, but it would have sucked a million times worse if it had been just me.

Anyway, I hope you figure out all your afterlife crap. By the way, this coming Sunday is Valentine’s Day. Thought you might want to know.

Your son,

Tom

I will lie down here, I thought, just for a moment.

Dear Trevor,

Believe me when I tell you I care about your life. It’s nearly all I’ve cared about since the first time I received a letter from you up here. I would love to come to your basketball game. If I could find it in myself to shed a tear, I would shed them for the times we did not get to play together at any sport or game—basketball, soccer, a simple game of catch, a pillow fight, a race to the mailbox and back. A spitting contest off the deck.

The woods simply overwhelmed me. I am a little better today, a condition which fills me with its own kind of dread, because I know I must go back into the woods.

Will it help if I continue my story for you? Here goes:

I followed Julia and Martin’s trail deeper into the trees until I began to notice a sound. It started as a distant, muffled buzz, but I recognized it even then. It was a river. It had such a steady, solid noise that I thought it might be a waterfall. The sound was a comfort—like running into an old friend in a strange city. A river meant life. Rivers started somewhere and went somewhere. They proceeded, unlike tides and fog and everything else in this world that simply seemed to come and go.

I was desperate for any kind of company, because the woods were the most alone place I have ever been. No animals. No people. Even the tree branches were out of reach. It was a smothering kind of loneliness. I thought maybe I would never see people again. I longed for humans. I would have kissed Sung-Hee on the lips if I had seen her.

The sound of the river was the closest thing to a friend I had. For the first time since I entered the forest, I quickened my step.

In the silence, the sound must have traveled for many miles, because it seemed I walked for days without reaching it. The saturated moss sucked at my feet. I slipped more and more as I went along, each time covering my clothes in green stains. The stains are still there now—green-streaked souvenirs of a trip I’d rather sever from my memory.

I was tired, but not in the way you might get tired from running lines in your basketball practice—yes, I read that letter. I was short of breath, much like I had become late in my cancer, when the air seemed less worth breathing. The moss sucked at my feet from below. The dark, moist air sucked at my mouth, seeming to pull any usable oxygen out of it.

But I went on, stopping briefly at the bottom of a rise in the land. The sound of the river grew louder here. I began to struggle up the rise and determined that when I reached the top, I would lie down and rest. It seemed as I went up, that gravity increased its pull on me. Each lift of a foot became a struggle of determination. I stopped halfway to the top.

“I will lie down here,” I thought, “just for a moment.” I did so, sprawling on the damp moss. I closed my eyes and tried to catch my breath, but the air here was damper than ever. It was like breathing in Jell-o.

Lying there, the side of my head was half sunk into the deep moss. I could hear the squishing, sucking sound through my submerged ear. I could feel a kind of tingly, creeping movement over my wet skin, as if bugs were crawling slowly up from the moss and onto me. I wanted to scream, to jump to my feet, but I was so tired.

I laid there, Trevor, thinking that perhaps I would just breathe in and out one more time and then go to sleep. It had been so long since I’d had a really good sleep. But I dreaded lying their by myself. I wanted to find someone—anyone. I longed to be not alone. I longed even for Martin and Julia’s pathetic company.

It was that longing—or that dread of loneliness—that pushed me to my feet. My face and clothing were wet and green now, like the moss I’d lied in. I struggled mindlessly to the top of the hill and nearly tripped over Martin’s body.

He laid there, his eyes mostly closed, his big chest rising and falling ever so slightly. Moss covered him nearly completely. It grew on his skin, as if he were made of rotting wood. One dripping eye was exposed. His gaping fish mouth sucked the moist air in and out. I screamed.

“Help me!” a voice called in response. It was Julia. I looked around in the dim light. “Help me, please!” she cried again. The sound of rushing water nearly drowned her out. “I heard a voice!” she cried. “Is someone there?”

I could just see her, waving a hand frantically, on the far side of the chasm. I had no idea how I might get to her. I had no desire to stay where I was, next to the moss-choked body beside me.

I need to beg for your patience again, Trevor. I am tired. I need to try to catch my breath again. I’ll write again soon. I’ve told you most of it, anyhow.

Dad

I’m still here. You’re the one who died.

Dear Dad,

You’re driving me crazy. I’ve received two letters from you since you returned and you’ve told me nothing except that the experience was awful and there was lots of moss. What am I supposed to do with that? You’re like Aunt Bronwyn who rambles on about old relatives I’ve never met. Get to the point, please!

I know I’m supposed to be patient. And I know that I’m still supposed to be amazed to even be writing back and forth with my dead father. Super spiritual experience and all that. But geez, Dad, you’re sounding kind of nuts. And you haven’t asked me one time about basketball. Nothing.

I mean, YOU left ME. I’m still here. You’re the one who died. Not me. You’re the one who left Mom with five kids and not enough money. And you know what? It kind of sucks.

Mr. What’s-his-face—Mr. Schick—he had a Team Talk today about last week’s game. He told us what we did right and what we did wrong. I don’t take any blame, because he didn’t even put me in for a second. He talked about that a little bit, too. “We’re in a very competitive league, so not all of us are going to play in every game. But you’re still an important part of this team. You still contribute in your own little way. Never forget that.”

Trust me. I will never forget that.

Mr. Schick is an ass. And you’re dead.

Your son,

Trevor

I pushed my way under the big trees.

Dear Trevor,

I still feel like I am catching my breath. Your stack of letters profoundly disturbed me, as I had no idea how long I was gone. Sometimes, in the woods, I thought I had only been there a few hours. Other times, I wondered if I’d ever been anywhere else.

Be patient with me as I explain this to you, Trevor. It’s difficult for me to write. This stubby pencil keeps falling out of my shaking hand. It is strange, communicating with someone who plays basketball, who talks of other humans. It amazes me that there ever were such things. This paper of yours that you send to me. It appears real. I hope it is and I hope you are.

Forgive me, Trevor.

The woods.

The Laughing Gull.

I remember leaving the Laughing Gull a million years ago or five minutes ago to follow Martin and Julia. I had no idea what I hoped to find in the woods, but the knowledge that others were going first eased my anxiety. Just knowing Martin and Julia were in there somewhere made the experience feel less alone.

I found a trail through the brambles and pushed my way under the big trees. Once I got past the brushy edge, the rough trail gave way to mossy ground, which made every step soft and slippery. It was easy to follow Martin’s trail, though. He left size 13 scars on the moss. Next to his marks were the tiny blemishes made by Julia’s shoes.

The woods were dark all the time. Above, the huge trees disappeared up into the fog. I suppose that fog is why the trees are so big. It’s always feeding them. Always growing them to become more and more overwhelming. More imposing.

Growth only happens up above. Down on the ground, the only thing that grows is moss and mildew. The trees are draped in cobwebby moss. Moss on the tree trunks is seaweed-heavy. The ground is soggy with it. Every surface seems covered with some shade of green. It’s a kind of life, I suppose, but a choking kind.

Taken me half a day to write this, it seems.

I walked alone for some time—no idea how long. The air was so heavy in there, it seemed hard to breathe deep enough to reach that satisfying catch in the throat. If I had to do more than follow Julia and Martin’s marks, I would not have managed. Soon, all I could see were trees and moss. The only dim light came from above. The only sound was dripping water and a kind of squishing, wriggling sound that seemed to come from all around. It sounded like a million bug-sized drops of water had come to life. It seemed—

O Lord.

Trevor, I can’t write more today. I feel I’ve told you nothing so far. Tomorrow.

Dad