text: [Themes: modern]
  
  "I guess this is not the best night to be out hiking in the woods, is it?" you say, watching as the pair gravitates straight toward the woodstove.
  
  "Wha—? No. We were, ah, off the trail a while ago?" the man says. It's a statement, you assume, but the last word is inflected upwards like a question.
  
  "Our car broke down," the woman quickly clarifies. "Miles from anywhere, just our luck. We thought we were going to be stranded out here, but then Gordy spotted the light in your window."
  
  "You're a life saver," the man, Gordy, says again. He looks up from the woodstove and flashes a grin between his mutton chop sideburns, but his glasses are so wet it's a wonder he knows where to look.
  
  "How far did you have to walk to get here?" you ask, wondering to yourself why they didn't just stay in the car where it was dry.
  
  "Not far," the woman says. She has an athletic build, but still stands no higher than his shoulder — a runner, perhaps, paired with a fop. Neither of them can be older than thirty, if even that.
  
  "I had left the key in the ignition all day," Gordy says, as if embarrassed to admit the folly. "The battery was dead when we got back."
  
  "Got back from where?" you ask; the state trailhead is three miles up the road. She had said they hadn't come far, but certainly that counts as far under the circumstances.
  
  "Exploring," is all the woman says.
  
  "Did you guys take the trail in to Ridgerock Lake?"
  
  "Where?" she says.
  
  "Ridgerock Lake," you repeat. "That's where the trail at the end of the road goes. Most of the hikers who pass this way are going to Ridgerock."
  
  "Oh. Well, Gordy and I aren't much into hiking."
  
  There is an awkward silence, except for the wind and the rain outside. If they weren't hiking, then what were they doing here?
  
  "Where is your car parked?" you ask.
  
  "It's just around the bend," Gordy says, as if dismissing your query as unimportant.
  
  There is a math to what they're saying that doesn't equate with your knowledge of the neighborhood. Why would these two people be parked so far from the state trailhead? There's nothing "around the bend" but Ray and Mindy Cooper's little A-frame. But whatever; the details of their misadventures aren't necessarily your business. Right?
  
  You get an idea. If it's just a battery jump they need, that might be something you can help them with. To get them on their way, if that's what they want.
  
  "Was that your truck we saw out front?" Gordy asks before you can make your suggestion. "The red F150?"
  
  "Yeah, that's mine," you say.
  
  "What year is it? It looks brand new!" His interest in your truck seems somehow out of character for him; you picture Gordy more as the Volvo type.
  
  "It's a 2017," you reply. "I've had it for over two years now."
  
  "How many miles?"
  
  "Oh, about 32,000, I think."
  
  "Nice. Still practically brand new. You must be well off to afford a truck like that!"
  
  It's an interesting choice of words. You've never considered yourself "well off," although you and Heather live comfortably enough. But if you're not mistaken, was there almost resentment in the way he said it? Like the interest in your truck isn't genuine — like he's playing you, somehow?
  
  Best to keep things civil, you decide. "By the way, my name is Al Flansburgh," you say, extending your hand to him.
  
  "Yeah, sorry, we should've introduced ourselves," Gordy says. He returns your grip with a damp hand. "Gordon Fellows."
  
  The woman extends her hand next. "I'm Charlei. Charlei Goodcheer. And despite what he says, don't you dare call him Gordon, or he'll get all grumpy."
  
  Gordy seems mildly perturbed at the comment. "Honey," he chastises her.
  
  "But you do! Remember what you did the other day when—"
  
  "Honey!" he says again to her, this time with his jaw muscles tense.
  
  "Now you're just proving my point, Gordon," Charlei teases. "Or maybe I should call you Mr. Goodcheer-Fellows."
  
  Just then, at the mention of the hyphenated surname, you spot the tarnished rings on their left hands. "The Goodcheer-Fellows," you say. "That's clever."
  
  "Well, normally I'd agree," she says, "but lately Gordon here hasn't been a very cheerful fellow. Have you, Gordon?"
  
  Charlei's husband is now quiet, like he's trying to stifle a response. It could just be the weather; based on appearances alone, he is certainly not the rugged individualist type. Getting caught in a downpour is quite likely the type of adversity for which a sheltered childhood failed to prepare him.
  
  "Where are you two trying to get to? Before the battery died." Once again, you feel the need to steer the conversation a bit.
  
  "Oh, wherever," is all Charlei says. Gordy is still sullen, adding no further details either.
  
  "I mean, there must be someplace you need to be," you continue, thinking these two seem to have a lot of baggage between them tonight, and this may not be the best place to unpack it. "I can give you a jump, get you on your way."
  
  Neither of the Goodcheer-Fellows seem overly joyful at the offer. "You mean you'd give my shitty little Dodge a jump with that manly F150 of yours?" Gordy says. Wet clothes and foul mood notwithstanding, this chip on his shoulder is something you can't fathom.
  
  "It's a nice gesture," Charlei adds, but it comes across like a noncommittal response that does little to mitigate her husband's attitude. It's almost like the two of them are making a coordinated effort to resist your attempts at helpfulness — like what they want more than anything is to be here, in the Bear's Den.
  
  Guests for the night? You'd hate to turn people out in the storm, but you're not really prepared to be hosting company. At least, not this company. There are only two rooms in this cabin — the combination den/kitchen here on the first floor and the bunk room upstairs — and you doubt there is food enough on the premises for three people.
  
  On the other hand, there's no guarantee the road out to town is still passable. You all may be stuck here anyway.
  
  > let it go. No one is going to get far in this weather.
  "Well, let me see if I can get you two some chairs," you say. "I expect it's going to be a long night, so you might as well get comfortable."
  
  "That's sweet of you!" Charlei says, clearly much more interested in the idea of staying versus venturing back out into the storm. Both she and her husband watch you from beside the woodstove as you look around, realizing that you have no chairs to offer except the old folding chairs gathered around the kitchen table. You grab two by the back and turn to carry them to the woodstove, only to find that Gordy has already settled himself into your grandfather's wooden chair. He stares absent-mindedly at the stove, as if he is seeing right through the metal sides of the barrel and is mesmerized by the orange flames inside.
  
  Charlei takes one of the folding chairs and sets it to the right of the stove, near the door. "This is quite the cozy place you have here. Did you build it?"
  
  "Heck no. My grandfather bought it a long time ago. Used to be a farmhouse in the old days." You set the other chair beside Gordy, on the left side of the stove.
  
  "Ooh, so it's old."
  
  "Older than any of us, that's for sure," you say.
  
  "Have you ever seen any ghosts?"
  
  "None but the ones I carry with me inside my head. I wouldn't be inclined to believe them otherwise." As you speak to her, you watch as her husband idly picks up the half-empty bottle of Magic Hat that you had set beside your old chair when you heard them knocking. Without taking his eyes off that stove, he drinks from it as if it had been his all along.
  
  "Gordy, that's not your beer!" Charlei chastises him.
  
  He looks at the bottle as if seeing it for the first time. "Oh. Whoops." Then his hand comes down to his lap, still holding the beer.
  
  You had been expecting him to hand it back to you, wondering if you'd even take it if he did so. Now that he seems to be claiming it with no further discussion, you find yourself paradoxically annoyed anyway — but holding back the response, in what is turning out to be a growing reservoir of misgivings. "No, that's fine. I have others in the cooler. Do you want one... did you say your name was Charlei?"
  
  "No beer for me, thanks. And uh-huh, that's my name."
  
  "Short for Charlene, I'd guess."
  
  "Then you'd be guessing wrong there, Al. It is all right if I call you Al, isn't it?" You look across the Magic Hat in Gordy's lap to where she is sitting, the hood still pulled up over her hair, water dripping from the edges of her chair to create a square-shaped mark on the wood floor. She looks back at you crossly. So, apparently not a Charlene.
  
  "Sorry. Didn't mean to upset you."
  
  But instead of dwelling on the name issue, she stands up abruptly. "I'm hungry. What do you have to eat around here, Al?"
  
  Before you know it, she's inviting herself into your kitchen; as the confused host, you stand up to follow her.
  
  "What, no fridge?" Charlei asks, looking suddenly lost among the array of mid-century cabinets, gas ranges of various vintages, and the enamel sink that constitutes the cabin's "kitchen."
  
  What you think: Of course not, you little ijjut. What do you think this is, the Honnedaga Hilton?
  
  What you actually say: "Heh-heh, no, not here. There's no power on this road. A refrigerator would be purely ornamental."
  
  She pivots on her heels to look at you, clearly unconvinced. "But the other—"
  
  Gordy quietly clears his throat. This causes you to make a turn too, but he is still sitting in your chair, pretending to be enrapt by the flames no one can see directly.
  
  "What I mean is, you don't have a generator at this place, Al?"
  
  Your gaze returns to Charlei. She seems genuinely perplexed, like you're letting her down.
  
  "No, this old place has never had electricity, and I've never wanted to be the one who broke with tradition."
  
  "Tradition," she sniffs. "Hell, Al, it's called the twenty-first century." She sees the metal cabinet standing beside the sink and pulls open the double doors, standing before the contents. "Pancake syrup, ketchup, mustard, Reynolds Wrap, instant coffee... what's this stuff, generic Kool-Aid?... here's a half-empty bottle of A1, some Tabasco sauce... Jesus, Al, how do you think you're going to feed your guests?"
  
  This time her boldness gets through all your defenses. "Sorry. Maybe if you had made a reservation."
  
  > Next page.
  "Calm down. I was just kidding." She closes the door to the cabinet, and then notices your cooler sitting on the floor beside it. Watching her paw through all your stuff, you have no idea how to respond. On the one hand, she seems to be testing your limits; on the other, it's not like there's anything here you are trying to hide.
  
  "Beer. And bacon," she announces, looking past you to her husband. "Well I guess that's something. Do these stoves work, or will we need to cook breakfast on that rusty ol' woodstove?"
  
  But before you can answer she has already moved across the room to examine the contents of a shelf affixed to the wall near the table. Mostly what she finds is your stash of kindling: old newspapers, outdated editions of a local gossip rag, and...
  
  "Penthouse, Al?" She's holding up an issue from a couple Augusts ago. "Really? Does your wife know about these?"
  
  "That's—"
  
  "Yeah, I see that your ring on your finger. I know you're married." She flips through the pages of the magazine, the pictures contained therein apparently confirming some preconception about you. "How typical," she says, slamming the Penthouse back on top of the newspapers — and not buried beneath them, where you had forgotten it was even there.
  
  "Al, your fire is going out." This comes from Gordy, still sitting contentedly in your chair. "You might want to put more wood on it."
  
  So do it yourself! It's as if these two people are doing everything they possibly can to test your patience. Is this a generational thing? A result of poor parenting? Or a deliberate, calculated effort to piss you off? If it's that last thing, they're damn near close to success.
  
  Begrudgingly, you admit Gordy may be correct; it's been a while since you've loaded anything into the woodstove. You grab the rubber handle, shaped like a black ping-pong ball, and open the hatch to the barrel. Indeed, the flames inside have grown anemic, coals floating atop hills of ash.
  
  "Oh, you know what!" As you pick a couple large chunks of split maple from your indoor stash of firewood, you turn to regard Charlei as she makes her latest proclamation. Now she's standing directly behind her husband, albeit several feet away. He looks perfectly bored, setting the now-empty bottle of Magic Hat beside him in the puddle of water he has created on the floor. No one responds, so she continues on her own.
  
  "I know just the thing to make tonight perfect?"
  
  "And what would that be, sweetie?" This comes from Gordy, barely moving.
  
  "You know!" she goads him.
  
  "No I don't."
  
  "Yes, you do. You know..."
  
  "Oh, you mean now?"
  
  What can you do but quietly listen to their exchange as you thrust the chunks of dried wood into the volcanic interior of the barrel stove, one at a time?
  
  "Why not now?" she says, brows furrowed under her damp cotton hood.
  
  "But I thought—"
  
  "Gordon, if anyone cares what you think, you'll be the first to know."
  
  The fire now duly stoked, you close the door to the stove and settle into the folding chair. Just as you are seated, Gordy stands up from your grandfather's chair and turns to confront his wife. He stands above her, glaring into her eyes, but neither spouse says a word. After holding each other's gaze for what seems like half a minute, he is the fist to look away. "Where's that beer cooler?"
  
  "Over there," Charlei says, pointing. He opens the cover; she sits down where she had been before all this began.
  
  "Magic Hat?" he says, inspecting the contents of the cooler as if discontented with your choice in twelve packs.
  
  At this point, even you wish you had bothered to buy something with a stronger alcohol content. "I'll take one of those while you're up," you say.
  
  But Gordy pulls a single bottle from the cooler and puts the top back in place. "You know what's really good?" he says. When no one responds right away, he turns around to face you, the bottle in his hands and a lost expression in his eyes. "Al, where's your bottle opener?"
  
  Your bottle opener is actually on your keychain, which is tucked deep within your pants pocket. Sighing without restraint — in fact, you want these two helpless twits to hear it — you stand up and pull it free. Gordy stands by the cooler, his hand extended toward you expectantly. You toss the bottle opener, keys attached, over to him.
  
  But instead of opening his beer bottle, he examines the keys that are attached to it. "Wow, thanks! I should take that truck of yours for a spin!"
  
  For a second you fear he just might do that. He is clasping the key to the Ford tightly, holding it up to his eyes. The Magic Hat is all but forgotten, and he holds it to his side absent-mindedly as if he me might drop it at any moment.
  
  "Let me see," Charlei says from the opposite side of the woodstove, and before you can object he tosses your keys to her. He never did open that beer bottle.
  
  > Next page.
  "So what kind of engine you got in that thing?" Gordy asks. "I hope it's not a diesel. Those things stink."
  
  You are watching as Charlei examines the keychain as if it were a rare and exotic item before tossing it back to her husband. "No, it's a V6," you say.
  
  "Oh, and not an eight-cylinder? That's too bad." At last, he turns the keychain around in his hand and applies it to the beer bottle cap, which tinks to the floor. He tosses the keys back to you, his curiosity satisfied for the moment, and returns to your grandfather's old chair.
  
  "We should go for a ride later!" Charlei says, back on her feet and standing in the kitchen once again.
  
  "And just where are we going to go?" you say. This strange idiocy of theirs is clearly getting to you, and you see no reason to conceal it any longer.
  
  "Al, settle down," Gordy says after finishing his first swig from the new bottle. "No need to raise your voice. Show a little respect to my wife, if you don't mind."
  
  "Well look who's becoming all chivalrous all of a sudden!" Charlei steps forward and wraps her arms around her husband from behind, nestling her chin on his shoulder. He shuffles his beer bottle to his left hand and reaches up to rub her hair with his right. They remain in this affectionate pose for an extended moment, almost in the opposite state of mind from when they first arrived.
  
  You get sick of watching them, so you stand up abruptly and head over to the cooler, grabbing another Magic Hat for yourself, since Gordy couldn't be bothered to do bring one for you when you asked. The sound of it opening snaps Charlei from her amorous reverie.
  
  "How many of those have you had?" she asks as you stoop to pick up the cap her husband dropped on the floor.
  
  "What does it matter?"
  
  "I don't know. I was just thinking it's a wild night out there, and you might want to keep your wits about you."
  
  The thought of returning to that folding chair and sitting with them again has become unbearable, so you back yourself against the table and lean against it as you take your first sip of the beer. "What makes you think I plan to go out in that weather?"
  
  "It's not what you're planning I'd worry about. It's the unexpected things that could be a problem."
  
  She herself is the living embodiment of her own point. You regard her from across the room: dripping wet, standing in a stranger's cabin, acting like this is all her little party and you're the cantankerous guest.
  
  "So what was that idea you had a moment ago?" you say, rubbing your chin to feel the stubble that has accumulated there.
  
  "What idea?"
  
  "Just now, you said you knew how to make the night perfect or something. What is it?"
  
  Gordy pipes up from the other side of her, never taking his eyes off the stove: "It was nothing, Al. She was just trying to tease me."
  
  Charlei says nothing to explain herself. Instead, her eyes brighten as if inspired by another idea. "This place you have here is so cozy, Al!"
  
  "Thanks," you say flatly, unconvinced of her sincerity.
  
  "Why don't you show me around? You know, give me the grand tour."
  
  "You're already looking at half of it," you say. "There's this floor here, then the loft upstairs."
  
  "Nuh-uh!" she says dismissively. "Don't you be lying to me, Al! I see two doors I haven't been through yet: one over there by the sink, and that other one by the table. Where do they go?"
  
  "The back stoop, and nowhere," you say, nodding to each door respectively.
  
  "What do you mean, nowhere?"
  
  "As in, there's nothing on the other side. Used to be there was another part of the house over there, where the old man slept I think. But the foundation rotted out years ago and my grandfather had it torn down back in the seventies."
  
  "Old man? What old man?"
  
  "Higgins, I think his name was. He used to live here around the turn of the last century. Died in 1921."
  
  "Did he die here? That gives me the creeps!" she says. You've been noticing that as this latest turn in the conversation unfolds, she's been inching away from her husband and closer to you.
  
  "Why does it give you the creeps?"
  
  "Doesn't it make you a little nervous?" she counters.
  
  "I don't get it," you say. "Why should that bother me?"
  
  "All the time you must spend here alone..."
  
  "The guy's been dead for almost a hundred years. Trust me, I've never met him."
  
  "Al is a rational man," Gordy explains from the other side of the room, same position as always. "Things have to make sense, or he doesn't believe they can happen."
  
  You don't respond. For someone who's only known you for about twenty minutes, it's not a bad assessment.
  
  But now Charlei has closed most of the distance between you. She reaches forward to tap you on the chest. "But sometimes things happen that have no explanation, Al. What do you make of that?"
  
  All you can do is shrug, the beer swishing inside the bottle you're holding.
  
  "By the way, don't you have a bathroom in this place?" she asks, now practically face to face with you. But before you can reply, she answers her own question: "Let me guess, a girl has to go outside to use the outhouse."
  
  "I keep a clean privy," you say.
  
  "I'm sure. But you have to go outside to get to it."
  
  She does have a point. "It's not far. And you can't get any wetter than you already are."
  
  "Can you show me?" she asks.
  
  "It's just outside that back door," you say, pointing to the door beside the sink. "Take the flashlight from that shelf to the left. It ain't more than twenty feet away."
  
  Charlei doesn't even look at the shelf you just pointed to. Instead she reaches up on her toes toward your ear. "I have something I want to tell you," she whispers before rushing off toward the door. She looks at you as if imploring you to follow, her hand on the handle.
  
  > follow her out the back door.
  The night has already become surreal enough, so why not follow Charlei out that door? But you are worried about Gordy's reaction, even though he seems to be perfectly content over there with his beer. Charlei clucks her tongue when she sees you looking back at him and grabs you by the sleeve, gently tugging you toward the door.
  
  But when the door opens, you are startled by the ferocity of the storm outside. All this time the walls and the windows have been rattling away, but since the arrival of the Goodcheer-Fellows you've been so distracted that you nearly forgot about Bob. The relatively feeble light from the kerosene lamp illuminates only a small rectangle of the space behind the camp, but it is enough to show streaks of nearly horizontal rain and a yard that has become a shallow lake.
  
  Reflexively you back away from the door — you're not dressed for this, you don't have a coat and your feet are wearing nothing but slippers. On a normal summer night that would be enough, but this night is anything but normal.
  
  Charlei doesn't let you get away, though, and instead pulls you with her into the wind and rain. All you manage to take with you is the flashlight.
  
  The stoop is covered with a small roof, propped up with a pair of shaped wooden posts coated with an ancient layer of chipped white paint. This tiny shelter is enough to keep the snow from piling up against the door in winter, but it is inadequate to shield you from the indignities of Bob tonight. Charlei closes the door and then pushes you against the wall with a sense of urgency. Her face is lit up from below by the little red flashlight in your hands.
  
  "Gordy plans to kill you tonight."
  
  Blinking, you look at her in the glow of the flashlight, illuminated like some teenaged camp counselor telling ghost stories. You assume she's kidding — this must be some kind of a joke — even though she is delivering the news with utmost seriousness. You shrug your arms away from her grasp, but she only backs away by half a step.
  
  "I need to get you out of here," she continues. You scan her face for the slightest sign of a smirk, but there is none. "Do you still have your truck keys?"
  
  Of course you do; they're in your pockets, safe from the overly-enthusiastic curiosity of your guests. Is that what this is about then, a ploy to get a ride in the F150?
  
  "This is ridiculous!" you start to protest, already feeling the rain soak through to your skin. "I don't—"
  
  But Charlei reaches up to cover your mouth with her hand. She nods to the curtained window nearby, darkened by a human-shaped shadow on the other side, someone standing in the kitchen. Gordy's shadow.
  
  You have to admit, this is an unsettling situation, and the evidence is now convincing: not only do these two people not add up to the sum of their parts, but each one is an irrational number, impossible for you to resolve. But Gordy? A killer? It must be flattery on the part of Charlei to think that her husband could be so dangerous to anyone, what with those pencil-thin arms and slightly crooked glasses. Are you really going to let her con you into running around in this storm wearing nothing but your slippers?
  
  > This is nuts. Go back inside.
  You shake your head at her. "This is nuts. You're nuts." Brushing past her, you step back toward the door. But before reentering the Bear's Den you regard her one last time: the water pouring off the roof of the stoop behind her, some of it dribbling down her back; a distinct expression of disappointment in her eyes.
  
  "The outhouse is right over there. Here, take the flashlight."
  
  Charlei's eyes move away from yours only long enough to catch the little battery-powered light. By the time she has a firm grasp on it, you are opening the door to your camp.
  
  It is a relief to be back in the dry interior of the Bear's Den, but the damage is already done: water has seeped through both slippers, and your left elbow is soaked. All you really want right now is that beer you left on the table — and to be left in peace beside the woodstove, just as you had planned when you decided against making the drive back to Rochester.
  
  There is a slight problem, though: Gordy is now leaning against the table, almost in the same way you had been a few minutes ago. Your beer bottle is just behind him; his own is still sitting on the floor beside the wood chair.
  
  "Did Charlei find the outhouse all right?" he asks, his gaze fixed on you. A killer? Of your patience, maybe. Of your faith in other people, quite likely. You feel an intense dislike for him, his wife included, and you regret ever opening that door to let them in. But fear? That was the last thing on your mind — up until the moment Charlei planted the idea there.
  
  "She'll manage," you say.
  
  "You don't like us, do you, Al?"
  
  You weigh your response carefully; maybe you are unable to see how he could be a physical threat, but nevertheless his social skills are beyond "odd." His words, as well as hers, point to a hidden agenda that you haven't even begun to guess.
  
  "You go out of your way not to be liked," you say.
  
  Gordy shakes his head. "Don't take it personally. There's been some trouble between us. In fact, I'm surprised you even came back; I thought for sure she'd tell you something awful about me."
  
  Indeed she did, you think. You look at him anew: a put-upon husband besieged by a flighty wife, perhaps?
  
  "Come, let's have a seat," he says, pushing your beer to the edge of the table, as if making it easier for you to reach. "At least we'll have a couple minutes of quiet before she returns."
  
  You watch as he strolls back to the side of the woodstove, this time taking the folding chair where you had been sitting. He grabs his beer from the floor, then gestures for you to sit in the wooden chair, as if he has suddenly evolved into a normal, considerate human being. And all it took was Charlei's departure.
  
  Admittedly, this is an interesting development. You grab your beer from the tabletop and take your place in front of the woodstove. As you watch, Gordy takes another long swig of the bottle in his hand.
  
  "I take it you're not a fan of Magic Hat?" you say.
  
  "What?"
  
  "The beer. You said a few minutes ago there was something you like better."
  
  Gordy shrugs, like the topic is no longer that important to him. "I don't know. I mean, it's Magic Hat; they got bought out, and it's not even a microbrew anymore."
  
  "The beer still tastes the same to me."
  
  "Does it? That's interesting because I haven't even seen you take a drink since you came back in." Gordy looks down at the bottle in your hand, then back up to you. "So what were you two doing out there in the rain, anyway?"
  
  His stare has suddenly become more intense, as if he is no longer able to conceal the jealousy after having watched you go outside alone with Charlei a few minutes ago. Now you can say that perhaps you are beginning to fear him. You watch him carefully, cautious not to do anything that might betray your current thought process. His body is mostly still, with a casual lean into the back of the chair, legs extended forward. Only his thumb strokes the brown bottle in his hand, leaving a streaky back-and-forth track in the condensation.
  
  I haven't even seen you take a drink since you came back in, he just said. His shadow in the kitchen curtains not even a minute after you stepped out the door; standing at the same table where you had left your beer, then sliding it over to you. As if to make sure you took it.
  
  You had better respond to his question. "She just wanted me to show her where the privy is."
  
  "Why? Is it hidden? Wasn't the flashlight working?"
  
  Clearly, you haven't assuaged his suspicions, and indeed you gave him a pitiful explanation. But the truth—
  
  This isn't a line of questioning you could ever hope to satisfy, so you decide not to even try. You sigh and shrug your shoulders, a pantomime that you hope tells him you're as befuddled by the events of the evening as anyone. It seems to work, because his thumb relaxes as he adjusts his position in the chair and returns his gaze to the woodstove.
  
  Except that you catch him watching you from the corner of his eye, like he is waiting for you to take a sip from the beer bottle in your hands. That's what this is all about, isn't it? Poisoning you here inside your own cabin, then picking the truck keys from your pocket and running off with the Ford? Either you are in a deadly situation here, or you have a wild imagination.
  
  > The beer is contaminated. Dump it down the sink drain.
  Between Charlei's warning outside on the stoop, and Gordy's strange behavior now, you feel as though your life really could be in jeopardy. He must have put something inside your beer during that short time you were outside, and now he is eager to see his concoction take effect.
  
  It feels dangerous just to hold the bottle between your hands, and pretending to be comfortable here sitting with Gordy beside the woodstove is no longer possible. You stand up, holding the beer bottle by its tip as if it were a rotten fish, your guest watching with great interest.
  
  "Is something wrong with your beer there, Al? Maybe it tastes a little off?"
  
  You take the bottle over to the sink and hold it upside-down. The remaining contents pour out, frothing over the rust-stained enamel before trickling down the drain. Gordy laughs from beside the woodstove. "Just because Magic Hat isn't my thing doesn't mean you can't enjoy it! That's what they call alcohol abuse, just dumping it down the sink like that."
  
  The beer doesn't look any different, even as it disappears from sight. Still, you're relieved to be rid of it. "Gordy, will you be level with me?"
  
  "Of course, Al. But haven't I been level with you all along?"
  
  "Who are you, and why are you here?" You set the empty bottle down on the counter beside the sink, then stand with your arms folded in the middle of the kitchen.
  
  "Al, I'm getting some bad vibes here. It's like you don't trust me or something."
  
  "I'll be perfectly honest: I let you guys in because it looked like you needed some shelter. But now I get the sense both of you have been BS'ing me the entire time you've been here."
  
  Gordy nearly falls off the chair with an odd display of laughter. It almost sounds forced, like it is a reaction he that has been premeditating for quite some time. "You think I poisoned your beer!"
  
  You don't respond. Let him do all the talking for a bit.
  
  He stands up, places his own beer bottle on the chair behind him. "Al, I must say you're a real find. Nothing at all like your neighbors."
  
  "My neighbors?"
  
  "Yeah, just up the road from here. Charlei and I met them yesterday. Nice people, I'm sure, but they were less willing to play along."
  
  "Play along at what?" you say, wondering which of the other camp owners he might be talking about; you weren't aware anyone else was up this week. But if Gordy made you feel uneasy a moment ago, this sensation is ramping up as he slowly approaches you from the woodstove.
  
  "You know. Charlei must've told you outside."
  
  "Tol— Told me?" It's a ploy to buy more time. You remember full well what she said, how you first thought it was a joke. Since that moment, though, you've been on the fence about it.
  
  "Al, tsk-tsk! You asked me to be level with you, but now you aren't returning the favor. So here's the deal: you're in a tight spot, my friend. But I like you; you've been fun. So I'm going to do something I don't usually do: give you a fighting chance."
  
  Gordy has stopped his advance about six feet away from you, just standing there as if you were both squaring up for a Wild West gunfight. His casual stance, as if this were a normal night for him, gives you the distinct impression you've lost control of this situation.
  
  "Now, Al, follow my instructions closely: grab that beer bottle, the one you thought I poisoned."
  
  Hesitantly, you do as you're told.
  
  "No, not like that, not like you're going to take a drink from it. Grab it by the other end, by the neck. Good — yeah, just like that. Now, smash the bottom against the edge of the sink."
  
  You look at him to confirm his seriousness.
  
  "Go on, do it."
  
  So you do. Shards of brown glass rattle into the sink basin, across the counter, onto the floor. It leaves you with the broken upper half of the bottle still in your right hand.
  
  "See? Now it will be a fair fight." Gordy gestures with both hands for you to come at him, then spreads his feet and bends at the waist as if preparing for you to rush him with the jagged edge of the bottle.
  
  "This is insane!" you say, contemplating throwing the bottle away completely. "What do you think this is?"
  
  "It's your only way out of here, Al." He remains ready for your attack, although you have no idea how he plans to defend himself if you were to accept his invitation. Physically he is not much of a presence, so you can only assume he has a surprise he hasn't yet revealed.
  
  "C'mon, you can do it. You have that broken glass in your hands, and I'm just standing here. Come on, Al. Come on."
  
  This is beyond absurd. You toss the remaining part of the bottle hard against the wall so that it shatters completely. "You're out of your mind. I'm getting out of here."
  
  "Al, where are you going?"
  
  "Anywhere but here." Honestly, you have no idea. But your truck keys are still in your pocket, and you have a vague notion of driving off in it to someplace where Gordy and Charlei can't find you. You're just not sure where that might be, given the conditions outside.
  
  "I'm afraid I can't let you do that." Gordy reaches under his vest and reveals a small handgun that must have been hiding there this entire time, then points it at you. "In fact, I really insist that you stay. Please, have a seat. That wooden chair seems to have some importance to you. Sit there."
  
  So this snub-nosed pistol is the ace card he's been holding all night long, just waiting for the right moment to use it. Certainly, its presence changes the calculation for you. Carefully, you step across the room, around Gordy and that toy-like gun, and ease into your grandfather's chair.
  
  "Good boy, good boy. Now I promise this won't hurt at all."
  
  There is an explosion of sound inside the Bear's Den, but that's where it ends for you. Your body, now relieved of a large portion of its skull, falls forward against one of the folding chairs, where it might not be found for several days, at least.