The next morning, after eating and banking the fire, Frank and Wright started down the driveway, wanting to follow their memories of footprints and fleeting smoke. “I’ve been avoiding this,” Frank said. “But we need to know who’s out there. Bring your bag and some food. No telling how long we’ll be gone.”
The road was still a tangle. The truck was still sitting where they had left it, but they were reminded of the need to deal with it. The footprints had washed away with recent rains, but their stone piling was intact. Standing next to it was a shorter piling, an invitation, a warning, a sign of something. They followed their recollections to a narrow opening, shielded from view by a thatch of thick vine and brush. It was barely a trail, not often used, but clear in its direction. Level ground at first, the path soon became a steady incline with outcroppings of rock lining it.