Jim Trainor

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But his shivering confirmed that he was still alive. Even with the Pendleton wool shirt under his Patagonia down jacket, one of the few nice things he still owned, it was not enough. It would be turning colder tonight, expected for Wisconsin this time of year, so it was just as well that Perch Lake Campground would close tomorrow for the season. It was nearly deserted. As far as Declan could tell, the campground host was the only other camper still here, probably the only person for miles.

 

A good night for a campfire, but he had no firewood. He’d seen the stack of shrink-wrapped bundles for sale over by the campground host’s RV, on his way to his daily hike, but he’d make do without a fire. Gazing into the dancing flames of a campfire was good for pondering, remembering, discerning—things he could do without.

 

The warmth of an RV appealed to him though, but he’d have to get by in his old mummy bag and his tiny tent, remnants from his college backpacking days, set up ten yards away from his rusted-out Corolla. The sleeping bag and tent had gathered dust for years, but since he left Chicago six months ago, he’d used them every night.

 

An hour later, Declan lay on his back in the tent, the hood of the mummy bag pulled tight around his face. Even with all his clothes on and a wool blanket over the down bag, he might be cold tonight.

 

Bedtime had been a challenge for over a year, and if he allowed memories to get a toehold in his mind, he’d toss for hours. But tonight, the dark and the quiet helped the toxic memories recede beyond some far horizon, and the longed-for sleep came quickly.

 

A clicking sound jolted him awake. He stayed still and listened, but there was no further sound. But he was sure about what he had heard—this wasn’t part of some dream. Someone had opened the door of the Corolla.