Page 35 of High Velocity

After I put the clean dishes away, I take care of the overflowing trash bin in the kitchen. There’s a large metal bin partway down the driveway where I was instructed to store garbage. It has one of those bear-proof locking mechanisms, and I was told it’s emptied every few weeks.

I shove my feet in my Crocs, grab the trash bag and the can of bear spray Janey suggested is a better defense against wildlife than a gun whenever I wander outside in the dark, and head out the front door.

It’s a beautiful night. Mild, I’d guess in the mid-sixties, which is surprising this early in spring. I didn’t bother putting on a jacket and I’m quite comfortable. The sky is clear and dotted with so many stars. You don’t see skies like this in the city, where light pollution washes out their glow.

I fill my lungs with fresh air, feeling the batteries I drained with my crying bout earlier slowly recharge. Now that the weather is better, I should do more of this; going out for walks, seeking out nature, instead of looking at it from inside four walls. Maybe I should take Janey up on her offer of taking me on a trail ride. I don’t have a ton of experience, and it’s been a while since I’ve been on a horse, but I’m pretty sure I can still remember where everything goes. As long as the horse is well-behaved, I should be okay.

Or maybe, if she’s busy, Jackson could take me.

My feet crunch on the gravel as I let my mind conjure up images of the two of us on a blanket under the trees, a picnic basket within reach, and two horses patiently waiting in the shade. Distracted by the nice fantasy—one I’m happy to let play out in my mind as I make my way to the green bin—it takes me a moment to register the snap of a branch.

I stop and angle my head to the right from where I thought the sound came. There’s a single light post by the garbage bin which makes it even more difficult to make out anything hidden in the dark shadows of the woods bordering the path. I should’ve grabbed a flashlight.

Dropping the garbage bag by my feet, I aim the bear spray at the trees, while reaching in my jeans pocket for my phone—which has a light—only to find it empty.

Shit. I left it plugged into the charger on the kitchen counter.

I’m startled by a sudden rustle, the sound of something substantially bigger than a bird or a squirrel moving through the trees. The next moment, a beam of light bounces off the tree trunks as a vehicle winds its way up the driveway, scaring off whatever animal was out there.

I quickly toss the trash bag in the bin, just as Jackson’s pickup pulls up.

“Everything okay?” he asks when he rolls down his window.

His dog, Ash, climbs over him to stick his head out. He whines for attention, so I reach out to scratch his head.

“Just taking out the trash.”

“Are you eager to get back inside, or can I interest you in a walk? This guy needs a chance to run for a bit.”

“I’d love a walk. I was just thinking about that, it’s a beautiful night out.”

“Sure is. There’s a nice trail along the creek on the other side. Let me just get rid of the truck.”

I nod. “Meet you at the house.” I probably should grab a sweater or something anyway, I can feel the temperature dropping.

Ash runs ahead as we set out on the trail, excitedly sniffing at random clumps of grass or tree trunks, proudly lifting his leg as he marks every spot.

“He just learned how to do that,” Jackson fills me in. “For the longest time he squatted like a girl, but he finally figured out how to pee standing up.”

I chuckle. “You sound like a proud dad.”

“Guess I am.”

He grins back and reaches for my hand, weaving his fingers through mine. It’s done so casually, it takes me a moment to realize we’re walking hand in hand, something I haven’t done in many years.

High school, in fact, if I remember correctly. Walking to the bus stop with Brian Simeon in our sophomore year. Public or even private displays of affection were nonexistent in my family. At least, not after my mother passed away.

The simple act of holding my hand in the dark of night, with no one to witness the gesture but the dog, somehow feels more significant. It also gives me a sense of safety, and any jitters of my earlier near-encounter remaining promptly disappear.

We walk without talking, giving my senses a chance to tune in to things I might otherwise have missed. Like the soft gurgle of the creek, the rustle of leaves at the slightest puff of wind, and the scent of damp earth and pine sap. I can feel the slight abrasion of the calluses on Jackson’s hand, and the fresh air entering my lungs with every breath.

I guess this is what they mean when I hear some people talk about being in the moment. I never understood the meaning of that statement. My focus has always been ahead, calculating a next move, a farther step. Stillness of any kind has always made me restless, eager for a purpose or a direction.

But in this moment I am simply content; my mind is quiet and my feet move of their own accord.

I’m more relaxed than I have been in I don’t know how long by the time we find our way back at the trailer.

“Is it too cold for you to sit outside?” Jackson asks. “I can make a fire.”

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