text: You've never met anyone more obnoxious. No, of course you're not going to follow her outside in this weather.
  
  "You'll find the toilet paper inside a coffee can screwed to the wall," you tell her, stepping away.
  
  Charlei looks disappointed. She mouths the word But—
  
  "Seriously, take that flashlight. It's dark out there." You take a drink from the beer bottle, watching your guest standing by the door. She hesitates, as if waiting to see if you really aren't going to follow her. In reply, you pull out the last remaining seat at your table and sit down.
  
  "I can't believe this," she says out loud, letting go of the door handle.
  
  "What, you don't need to use the privy after all?" you say, sitting sideways in the metal chair and leaning back against the wall.
  
  Gordy begins to chuckle over by the woodstove, a chuckle that quickly grows into a consuming laughter. He bends forward, head propped in his hand as his body convulses.
  
  "And what do you find so amusing there, mister?" his wife asks, annoyed with both of you.
  
  He sits back up, sighing to bring his breathing back into rhythm. "Ah, you know. Just the sheer ridiculousness of life, I guess."
  
  "So long as you're not laughing at me," she says.
  
  That shuts him up, as far as the laughing goes. "You know I wouldn't do that."
  
  Charlei shakes her head at him, although of course he's got his back to her and doesn't see her gesture of frustration. As you sit and watch with your beer, she paces the middle of the room twice, indecisive of what to do or where to go, and then she goes to the woodstove to fetch her chair. Gordy pays her no attention.
  
  She sets the chair down beside you at the table, then sits with her face propped on her chin, the instant picture of boredom.
  
  "So this is it, Al? This is what you consider a fun Saturday night?"
  
  "I've got a deck of cards."
  
  Her face lights up. "Exploding Kittens?"
  
  "Say what now? No, I was thinking something more like Pitch."
  
  "Pitch?"
  
  "Sure. Don't you know how to play?"
  
  "Isn't that one of those games with lots of rules?" she says, nose furrowed in disapproval.
  
  You don't respond; clearly Pitch is not an enticing option. There was a daily crossword in that newspaper, but Charlei seems too fidgety tonight to be interested in that kind of thing, either.
  
  "I'm tired of being soaking wet," she announces a moment later. "Aren't you, Gordy?"
  
  "That's why I'm sitting here, babe. Trying to dry off."
  
  "But I'm too on edge to just sit around. I wish I had a change of clothes."
  
  She looks at you expectantly, and a second passes before you realize she was actually making a request.
  
  "What?" you say, reflexively taking another drink from the bottle. "What do you want from me?"
  
  "Doesn't your wife ever come here?" she says.
  
  "Sometimes, I guess. Not often."
  
  "But doesn't she have any extra clothes laying around?"
  
  You shrug. "I honestly don't know. Maybe."
  
  "Where?"
  
  The idea of a stranger — and really, that's what she is, as far as you're concerned — prowling through Heather's personal items and wearing her clothes makes you uncomfortable. On the other hand Charlei looks as if she fell into the river; she may be annoying, and her husband may be a creep, but it can't be fun being stuck inside that soaking-wet hoodie of hers.
  
  "Up those stairs over there, first room on the left," you say, pointing to the steps that climb up to the left of the woodstove. "Heather is a bit taller than you, and I can't guarantee her clothes will fit, if in fact she left something for you to borrow."
  
  She seems excited by the possibility nevertheless. But before she rises to go exploring the second floor of your camp she reaches across the table to grab a notepad and a pencil. After hastily scratching out a message, she holds the pad up for you to read it:
  
  > Nah, this is not a game you want to play.
  You look away from the notepad, disinterested in whatever conspiracy she has in mind. "There's no light up there, so be sure to take the flashlight on the shelf at the bottom of the stairs."
  
  She tosses the pad angrily back on the table. "Al, you're killing me here!"
  
  Apparently this is no longer a secret to keep from Gordy. "What on earth do you mean?" you say.
  
  "I'm not going up there alone!"
  
  "You're a grown woman, aren't you? What do you need my help for! Ask your husband to go with you!"
  
  She shakes her head at you. "I give up," she says, rising from the table as her chair makes a loud screech across the floor. "I don't think it was a good idea to come here, Gord-O. Al isn't nearly as fun as I thought he would be."
  
  "Yeah, well, I could've told you that," he says from his chair.
  
  Fun? They came here just for fun?
  
  "Excuse me," you say from the table, "what did you guys just say?"
  
  "I'm not sure, but I think you spoiled some big plan she had in mind, and now she's upset." He doesn't turn as he speaks to you; rather, he's like an animatronic dummy sitting out there, jaw flapping only when he has some smart comment to make, arm lifting the beer to his mouth approximately every forty-five seconds.
  
  "Sorry, but I thought your car broke down and you had nowhere else to go."
  
  "Well, yeah, about that..." he says.
  
  "Uh-oh, Gordy," Charlei says, sitting down in the other folding chair, the one you had claimed for yourself a few minutes ago. "I think Al here is arriving at the conclusion we might be here under false pretenses."
  
  Indeed. Indeed.
  
  "So... You mean to tell me your car didn't really break down, and that you just showed up here, tonight of all nights, just to torment me?"
  
  "Torment?" Charlei says. "Are we really that bad?"
  
  "Yes!" you say; why not be honest? "You two are the weirdest people I've ever met!"
  
  "Well I guess that counts for something," she says to her husband matter-of-factly. "We're the weirdest, at the top of that category."
  
  "Beating out what, the four other people in his life?" Gordy replies.
  
  "Ha! That would be his wife, his mother, his father, and... Help me out, who would the fourth person be?"
  
  "I don't know, maybe a pedophile priest."
  
  "Yes! Everybody must have one of those in their lives. Is that why you're so uptight, Al? Did the padre touch your naughty bits in the confessional?"
  
  The wooden chair creaks as Gordy contorts himself to look at you. "If you're trying to provoke a reaction, Char, I think you've just scored."
  
  Never in your life have you ever had to endure anything remotely like this. You pound your fist on the table, the beer bottle shifting to the right with the vibration. "That's it. You guys are done here."
  
  "I wouldn't be so sure of that, Al," Gordy says, turning back to look at the woodstove, bottle in hand.
  
  "Yes, you are. Come on, get off your asses and get the hell out of here."
  
  "You're casting us back out into that storm?" Charlei says, but you're well past the point of feeling sympathy.
  
  "You betcha. Now get."
  
  Neither person budges, however.
  
  "These are some tough words, Al. How exactly do you plan to back them up?" Gordy says.
  
  "I'll toss you both out with my bare hands if I have to!"
  
  "Oh my god, Gordy, you should turn around and see this! Look how red his face is getting!"
  
  He twists his neck again. "Oh yes, he's getting bent out of shape over there."
  
  "So this hasn't been a total loss, right?"
  
  In other words, they're digging themselves in here like fleas on a stray dog. You stand up, hoping your physical presence makes a more convincing argument.
  
  "Ooh, I think we've made him mad," Charlei says, all but falling over laughing.
  
  "Hey now, sport, where are you going?" Gordy says, rising to cut you off.
  
  "I'm going to make good on my word," you threaten.
  
  "Ah, I see. The part about throwing us out with your bare hands or whatever? Then I'm afraid there's something you should know first."
  
  > Next page.
  He sets his bottle down on the chair, and just as you're about to rush him he puts his hand up to warn you off. With the other hand he reaches behind his soggy green vest and pulls out a small handgun that's been hidden there all this time.
  
  "You see," he continues, "I came prepared. I'm wondering if perhaps this changes the equation at all for you?"
  
  Indeed the sight of that snub-nosed little thing does take some of the starch out of you, especially since it's pointed straight at you.
  
  "There, I thought it might," he adds.
  
  "Whoa, Gordy, you're doing that now?" Charlei says, also looking at the gun in his hand.
  
  "Looks like we have to, hun. Al went and upped the timeline on us."
  
  "Well, all right. Just give me time to get out of here."
  
  "No worries."
  
  Things are not looking good, you must admit. The little gun in his hand looks like it would be a woman's self-defense weapon, something to carry with you to prevent a mugging or something, whatever these things are used for. Still, in his hands, in these small quarters, you have no doubts about its effectiveness.
  
  Charlei gets up from her chair. "I think I'll check out the upstairs now and look for those clothes. You said it was the first room on the left, correct?"
  
  When you don't respond right away, Gordy fills in for you. "I think Al is a little tongue-tied right now, but let me know what you find, OK?"
  
  She takes the flashight and dashes up the stairs, as if she can't get out of this room fast enough. This leaves you, Gordy, and the gun.
  
  "All right, I'm going to make you a deal," he says.
  
  "A deal?" you say, skeptically.
  
  "Yes, and probably the last one you'll ever make. Charlei and I are going to need that F150 of yours. I know the keys are in your pocket, and frankly I don't want to have to go reaching in there."
  
  "So what's the deal?" It's as though you can feel the color draining from your face.
  
  "It's very simple. Give me the keys now, and I'll make this go very quickly and humanely for you. Put up a fight, and I'll make sure you bleed out on the floor. Your choice."
  
  All this time he and his wife had been sitting here, you had no idea the full extent of their insanity.
  
  "Oh, come on," you say. "There's got to be some other way out of this!"
  
  "That's where you're wrong, Al. For you there never was; your fate was decided the moment we laid eyes on that light in your window."
  
  He's serious, of course, and you know there can be no reasoning with someone who possesses an inflexible brand of logic. But at the same time you're not prepared to simply lie down and permit yourself to be executed. You charge at him, with nothing but your bare hands to work with. The move certainly catches Gordy off guard, but the only effect is that when he fires the gun, the aim is truer than he intended.
  
  "Ah, balls," he says after you've fallen to the floor. "Now I've got to pick his pockets."