Chapter 5: The Empty Cot

"He's not in there," Perry said.

Blaine was beside him in two strides, close enough that Perry felt the heat of his shoulder.

He looked at the empty cot.

He looked at Perry.

All the color left his face.

"The headlights," Blaine said, very low. "He's got a window on the whole ridge road."

"He's at the latrine."

"For three hours?"

They checked the latrine, which was empty, and the cook shelter, which was empty.

In the supply tent something small and quick ran across the floor, and Perry's heart stopped.

Blaine stood in the middle of the clearing with his hands hanging.

"He saw us," he said. "He saw the truck stop for an hour and a half, and he's gone to get a shotgun."

"He doesn't own a shotgun," Perry said.

"He's got the bird scope. That's worse."

"Blaine," Perry said.

"I should never have said the back of the truck. What kind of man says the back of his stepfather's truck?"

"The kind who's on the lookout rock," a voice said, from the dark above them, "listening to owls."

They both jumped.

Dad sat on the flat granite shelf at the top of the path with a thermos beside him and his binoculars in his lap.

He wore his undershirt and his field vest, and he was plainly not holding a shotgun.

"Come up and listen," he said. "It's a saw-whet. Two notes, over and over, like a truck backing up."

They climbed.

Blaine climbed with his eyes on his boots, and he did not say a word.

Dad passed them the thermos, and Blaine took a swig and passed it on to Perry without looking at him.

The owl called from somewhere below, two notes, patient, over and over.

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