Garrett stopped at the leaning shack just before the road gave out. He pressed a hand to its warped door and listened. Inside, his charcoal moved fast across the chart. One more stretch, and the wildlands would have a usable line through them. He had crossed the boundary stone weeks ago. There was no road back, only forward. He found the satchel near the doorway, half-buried in mud. The clasp was broken. Inside lay a soaked journal, the ink bled into nothing. Someone had stopped here too. Someone had not gone home. Night came fast. Two blue lights drifted past the window, soft and round, blinking like they wanted him to follow. A third floated lower, closer, almost smiling. Garrett's boots shifted toward the door before he caught himself. He had seen the satchel. He knew where the lights led. He shuttered the window with a board and sat with his back to the wall. The lights tapped the glass, then drifted off into the trees. Garrett breathed out and opened his chart. He marked the shack as the last safe point — and drew a hard black line across the road beyond it.