The crescent moon was back in the sky, casting dim shadows in the night. Up ahead, a dark mass blotted out the trees lining the road. Limping, I approached it, veering off the shoulder to have a look. It was an old barn or shed, its weather-beaten planks curled with time. There was no door. I pulled my headlamp out of my backpack and turned it on.
“Hello!” I called out.
The interior was littered with haphazardly discarded items—boards, old shoes, a rusting tricycle. An ancient Chevy truck sat hunched in one corner, no wheels and on blocks, covered in garbage.
“Hello!”
My voice echoed without answer. I was exhausted. Beyond exhausted. I picked my way to the back of the shed. In the light of my headlamp, I passed something that looked like an old sheet—Maybe a curtain?—and I picked it up. It was stiff with dirt, but I shook it out and cleaned it off as best I could.
I shivered, the damp sweat still sticking to my back, chilling me in the cool night air.
Reaching the Chevy, I climbed up and opened the door. A long bench seat greeted me inside, and I smiled, jumping in behind the wheel. Putting my backpack down as a pillow, I closed the door and lay down, pulling the curtain around me.
