Crickets chirping. A frog splashes from lily pad to lily pad. Wild dogs run in packs. Howling. Barking. A bear growls.

The shack is run down. Boards missing. A rusted roof with holes in it. A wet dewy ground of yellow grass is the floor. A folding chair in the corner.

He sits outside in the rain, watching the light show in the sky. Lightning in streaks. Yellow and white. Kind of blue in midnight’s sky. He waits for a calm.

Sticks and logs on fire. Bologna on a stick. A sleeve of Ritz crackers. Some old potatoes with eyes. He peels the skin with a pocket knife. Boils them over a flame. Takes count in his head just how much food he has left. He’s fine for a week. 

Dollar bills in a metal lock box. A thousand bucks. He gave his fortune to the ex-wife; looks at her picture now and then.

A tall blonde with blue eyes. She always wore red lipstick. Rouge on her cheeks. Eye liner. She was sweet and nice. She earned it.

That was years ago when he was a city dweller. Back when he cheated people out of money through stocks and bonds. The highest bidder wins.

Now he does nothing but reads the books he brought out to the woods. The Odyssey, The Iliad, The Holy Bible (King James). Each book with a hero. A traveler. Men in search of truth. So many questions.

The lightning has stopped. No rumbles of thunder. He crawls into his shack and closes his eyes. He is at peace.