Instead of Dreaming – Transcript

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[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, it’s a story about a high school English teacher who comes to conclusions about life after recovering from a hit-and-run accident.

But first, the usual content advisory…

Were it a movie, “Instead of Dreaming” would be rated PG-13. It deals with a hit-and-run accident involving a bike, melancholy, nightmares, guilt trips, teen drug use, trespassing, the dark side of nostalgia, and a sorta-grisly crime scene. And if you’re listening to this while driving, there is the sound of an accident that is pretty apparent it’s coming, and the sound of an ambulance later in a scene looking back on an injury on a swingset. I always want to call these out because it’s never fun hearing squealing tires or an emergency vehicle while driving. And…there’s really not much swearing in this story, just one place with a word you’ve probably even heard on television.

A quick thing before getting to the story. This past year has been a weird one. I’ve talked in an intro or two about dealing with a health issue. It’s something that’s been a thing for 30-plus years with no answers. In March, I finally got a couple.

It turns out there was an issue deep in my heart at the end of a couple arteries. The surgeon who did the catheter procedure said things were so low—with no other issues—that it was almost not worth messing with. But…he suspected it was causing an electrical issue, and he placed two itty-bitty stents at the ends.

The moment the second stent went in, immediately, my heart went into normal rhythm for the first time in decades. The anxiety that comes with that is slowly disappearing, and I’m not afraid to lie on my back anymore. (That’s when it was always at its worst, feeling like a fish or something was flopping around in my chest.) 

Speaking of feelings in my chest…I can no longer feel my heart beating, unless I’m exercising…and even then, I have to really exert myself to feel it. That’s perhaps the weirdest thing through all this because, at any given time—much like tinnitus—if I thought about my heart, I could always feel it thudding away in my chest.

Now, though, I can’t.

It’s brought a strange stillness to my world.

There might be one other little thing needing to be fixed down the line, and I’m currently going through cardiac rehab, but this whole thing has been one of the weirdest changes in my entire life.

As I continue getting better, Not About Lumberjacks schedules and planned stories still might change at the last minute while healing, but things are already ridiculously snazzy, and there’s every reason to believe it will only get better.

All right: let’s get to work!

* * *

Instead of Dreaming

He’d been living in dreams instead of the waking world, his way of dealing with a months-long funk—days hovering in persistent idleness, despite having so much to do. Pick up a to-do list, even a small one written to take a tiny step forward, and he stagnated. “Clean Livingroom” eventually became “Clean  Coffee Table,” and then, “Put Mugs in Sink,” when he’d spent all day doing nothing but sitting.

Sleep was an escape, a place where some nights, everything seemed okay. Even a work dream was welcomed. On nights he dreamed about running, riding his bike, or hiking, he awakened with a distant hope that returning to those activities was not too far away.

Other nights, he was haunted by shadows or lost in dark forests. Dreams that someone was in his house or waiting for him on walks. Always ending the same way: a person shrouded in darkness coming his way. He still preferred nightmares to his waking hours.

The worst recurring dream ended with the roar of the engine.

* * *

Seven months before, while cresting a long hill climb on his bike, he heard someone behind him put their foot into the gas pedal of a Dodge 2500 pickup truck. As it overtook him, he saw the SUV coming the other way. Ditching the bike wasn’t an option. The truck came into his lane to avoid a head-on collision with the SUV, grinding him along a guardrail before speeding off.

The woman driving the SUV stopped and rushed over. He knew it was bad when she checked on him, apologized, and turned away while calling 911.

The doctor in the ER called it a comminuted fracture, explained that meant the bones were in pieces and that he was lucky to still have a leg. Three surgeries followed. He took short-term disability at work to focus on healing and suing the driver of the truck, who was caught on his bike’s rearview radar camera.

More surprising than the accident was his family’s reaction.

“That wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t ride on those back roads,” his mother said. Other relatives, and even some friends, were no different. It didn’t matter that he was struck 20 yards past a SHARE THE ROAD sign—or that the driver of the truck and not him was at fault—he was told it could have all been avoided by choosing a safer hobby. 

He stopped inviting people over, turned them away when they asked if he’d like a visit. Didn’t answer the door when they stopped by unannounced to check on him and remind him that he should never have been on the road. He retreated into one of his favorite things: sleeping.

Some people drink away their problems; he dreamed his away, blurring lucid dreaming and daydreams together as a way to spend his time in a meditative state when awake, and lost deeper in his mind when he slumbered.

Even how he’d return to his usual routine came to him in a dream.

* * *

April 7

7:24 p.m. 64 degrees Fahrenheit

He begins his walk a half hour before sunset, making his way to Comanche Bluff, a dead-end street overlooking a valley where his town gives way to unincorporated land to the west. In the summer, people pack into the tiny cul-de-sac to watch the sun go down, despite the protests of nearby residents tired of the crowds. This evening, he has the overlook to himself.

The little fluffy clouds of late morning seemed like they might rise into thunderheads by afternoon, but something higher aloft prevented their growth. They float like the clouds kids draw in school, with flat bases and bulbous curves—breaking just in time to let shafts of yellow light through in all directions. After the sunset rolls through all its colors and the stars sparkle in the darkened firmament, he stretches and turns back toward town.

He has roughly 11 hours to wander before the sun comes back up in the east.

* * *

8:31 p.m. 62 degrees Fahrenheit

As he approaches Cannon Park, the THWAK of pickleball serves and returns compete with the cacophony of skateboarders doing kick flips and grinding on rails. Teenagers roll along a course the city built to give kids something to do besides getting drunk and conquering boredom through vandalism. From his view, some kids drop from sight and shoot into the air on the far side of an in-ground bowl like a pool, lingering in the air before turning and shooting to the other side.

His neighborhood shines on the tennis-courts-turned-pickle-ball courts. Beneath the bright lights, Indian families chat with Kenyans; a guy from Oklahoma practices Spanish with a group of Mexicans. A British woman asks a Korean girl about school. Once, an older neighbor down the street flagged him over when he was on a walk. The man complained to him about all the people from other places moving into town, as though it were a bad thing.

“Why are you whispering?” he said said loudly enough to cause the old man to panic. “I like my neighbors.”

He looked the man up and down and added, “Well, most of them.”

How could anyone hate people coming together on such a lovely evening?

* * *

He makes his way to a swingset beside the playground and sits in the shadows just outside the stadium lighting. He grips the chains with his hands and pushes back with his feet in a short, backwards run. The swing hooks groan, but he’s seen heavier people playing with their children on the swingset during the day. He leans back and pumps his legs out and back, gaining height.

When he was a kid, his best friend, Matthew, was the kid in town who’d do anything on a dare. He once watched him shimmy up an exposed girder on the wall of his elementary school’s gym and leap from the rooftop into a pile of grass clippings. And when they were eight, at a different park, they dragged a picnic table over to the swingset so they could stand on the edge and leap off the tabletop like paratroopers. After swinging for a time, his friend instinctively leaned back with his legs high in the air on a backswing, forgetting the picnic table was there.

He can still hear the sound of the bridge of Matthew’s nose hitting the edge of the picnic table; can still see him flip high in the air and land on top in a pool of blood. It would not be the last time he’d watch an ambulance cart his best friend away.

He leans into the backswing like Matthew, letting his head almost reach the ground. Back and forth, higher and higher, until he lets go, hearing the chains rattle as he leaves the seat. Looking down, he regrets the hasty decision. How will his untested leg hold up when he hits the ground? As a kid, he’d swing so high that when he let go, he soared higher than the crossbar before crashing down to the ground. This leap is half of that, but could end in disaster.

He braces for impact, waits for the nerves in his repaired leg to flare and burn. Wonders if he’ll hear something break. But surgeons and therapists did their jobs; he comes down without issue. He rises on the balls of his feet, testing for any pain before resuming his nighttime walk.

* * *

8:54 p.m. 60 degrees Fahrenheit

As the sounds of Cannon Park fall away behind, two skateboarders race toward him, seemingly powered by some unseen force. There’s no hill in the direction they came, and no hum of a battery-powered motor pushing them along. 

“How are they moving so quickly?”

As they speed away, he notices the slight incline, a slope so subtle, he’s only aware of it because every step after such a long recovery is a measured action. Feeling the ground beneath his feet again is wonderful. He’s amazed how quickly the memory of movement’s become after seven months of limping and shuffling about.

The skateboarders disappear into the dark as he continues on his way.

* * *

9:27 p.m. 59 degrees Fahrenheit

He slows his pace about a mile down Mockingbird Lane, looks along the curb for the storm drain inlet. When he spots it, he crosses the street and makes his way down a hill into bushes and small trees. Most people driving the road each day—some likely driving its length a thousand times over—are unaware they cross a small bridge over a creek lost in the undergrowth. Growing up, he and his friends roamed most of the town, discovering secret places they never shared with others.

He’s always happy seeing kids splashing through the same creeks he and friends explored, watching them cross fields on their way to a golf course where a groundskeeper always chased them off, even in the coldest part of winter. Old treehouses still seem to get repaired just enough that most kids wouldn’t dare climb into the canopy, but those who know where to reach and pull on the way up are safe as long as they’ve had a tetanus shot. He wonders if any kids know about the drainage tunnels beneath Mockingbird Lane.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, opens the flashlight app so he can see where he’s going. He spots what he’s looking for where the storm drain dumps into the creek, a crude bit of graffiti reading DO NOT ENTER over the entrance to the storm drainage system.

When they were 14, Matthew spotted the opening and said, “Let’s see what’s in there.”

“No,” he said. “That just…that doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“It’s not rained in like a month. It’ll be fine.”

“What if it’s full of wasps?” The thought of being trapped in a tunnel and being stung, maybe perishing in a place no one would even consider looking, horrified him.

“Only one way to find out!” his friend said as he entered. “Come on!”

He started up, quickly realizing there was no way to turn around. He shimmied out backwards when even Matthew agreed it was too dark.

Of course, his best friend wanted to go back. Matthew climbed Mount Hood with his dad and had a camping headlamp before they were common. It was definitely enough light to spot black widows, which Matthew smacked with the padded mountain bike gloves he wore. Up they climbed, to the junction where the drain at street level went—an opening too small for even his brave friend to enter. The tunnel leveled out, and they crawled along, until encountering accumulated dirt built up like hard plaque in an artery. When it was too much, Matthew started digging, forcing his way into a junction box full of rats.

Before him, a wall of eyes glowed in the light from his headlamp.

“Back up!” his best friend shouted. Back up!”

Their arrival, or perhaps the screaming of Matthew, startled the horde. The mass of rodents raced their way, shooting past them in tight quarters. He froze. Matthew crashed into him with his feet, kicked at him while shouting, “Go! Go!!!”

He felt the nails of the rats scraping across his arms and back, hopping off and landing on his legs before racing out of the tunnel. He crawled in reverse as quickly as he could, the shouts of Matthew and squealing of rats echoing in the small passageway.

They never went back into the tunnel, but they did return the next day to spray paint a cartoon rat with a knife and the words TUNNEL RATS on the far wall beside the creek.

He’s happy to see it’s still there.

* * *

10:43 p.m. 56 degrees Fahrenheit

He’s stretching his back when he hears something in the grass behind him. Too late for rabbits, he thinks. Probably an opossum. He turns around and spots an armadillo rooting for grubs.

“Hey, you,” he says.

The armadillo continues with its armadillo business. They’re one of the better things about living in Texas to him—armadillos and roadrunners. Damn-near blind and with few cares in the world beside being hit by cars, he loves how close he can get to them.

“Nice evening for a walk,” he says. “Or eating grubs. But I guess any time is good grub time, huh?”

The armadillo pauses and digs; puts its snout into the ground and comes up chewing.

“Wanna know a little secret? You have to promise not to tell anyone, even your armadillo buddies. I’ve really liked the past seven months. I mean, sure, much of it was spent in pain, but I finally got a break. I suppose armadillo life never slows down, either, eh? Always on the go, just like us. But it was nice having time to just sit and think. Or just sit for the sake of stillness.

“I feel bad about enjoying some of my time, lately. I’m told I have a noble job as a teacher, and I do take what I do seriously. But I can’t pretend having time off in the summers wasn’t a big reason for my career decision—months to do the things I most enjoy. I do care about my students, but I’m not particularly fond of them. I think a lot of them are shitty, and that makes sense because a lot of adults are shitty. And sooooooooo many shitty parents.

“Are there shitty armadillos? Like some hardback named Brad you all slag on when he’s not around? Rolls up in a ball and crashes into you when you’re just trying to relax a moment from busy armadillo tasks? Pisses everywhere and starts fights?”

The armadillo carries on, seemingly oblivious to his presence. It bumps his foot and sniffs the air before returning to its mission.

“I got a good little chunk of money from a guy who hurt me and ran. That’s the only way you can damage people like that: hit them in the pocketbook. Between years of saving and the payout, I really don’t want to go back. At least I don’t think I do.”

The armadillo looks up at him before heading the other way.

“I don’t want this time to end…”

* * *

11:13 p.m. 54 degrees Fahrenheit

It was once a cowpath cutting through a small forest when the town wasn’t even a town and ranchers transitioned their herds from winter forages to warm-season grasses. When corn took over, the old trail was used only by the toughest teenagers around. Classmates claimed that to enter the cowpath was to put oneself at risk for beatings on the best days, or disappearing at the hands of reputed gangs, serial killers, or Satanists lying in wait along the trail like highwaymen on the worst. But housing developments defeated all, even beating back crops. The trees surrounding the cowpath shrunk, until only enough remained to make a paved trail cutting through still seem remote.

He stops and sniffs the air, thinking he smells a skunk.

Keep an eye out.

He turns his head and listens, hearing distant muffled voices instead of another animal in the grass. As he gets closer to the chatter, he realizes what he smells.

The two teenage skateboarders from earlier sit on a bench sharing a joint. He’s only smoked marijuana once, when Matthew was getting high and he wanted to see what the big deal was. Even though he liked some of the effect, it just wasn’t his thing. He considers asking the skateboarders if they’ll share; see what effect a hit or two has on his walk. But that would be condoning what they’re doing—not a good move for a teacher.

They make no attempt to hide what they’re up to. Kids today are more bold than when he was young, when everything scared him. They remind him of yet another reason teaching is growing old. He doesn’t recognize them—assumes they’ve dropped out or attend another school. There’s not much he can do—so he nods, says, “Hey,” and continues walking.

* * *

Midnight. April 8.

53 degrees Fahrenheit

Ahead, he sees something moving in the darkness, an upright shadow coming his way on the sidewalk. The hairs on his arms rise up, the skin on the back of his neck tightens. The way the figure moves gives him pause; he considers turning and running. 

Shadow people only exist in dreams.

He’s never been one to believe in the supernatural. As he gets closer, it’s just a guy in a black track suit.

His gait is unsettling. Not like there’s anything physically off with the way he walks, but something doesn’t feel right. Now, if he turned and ran, he feels like the man in the black track suit would chase him down. He is in a track suit, after all—he’d surely catch him. He tells himself maybe the guy’s cooling down from a run and every bit as unsettled by him, two chickens in the night making everything worse in their heads.

At the point they almost meet, he considers what he’ll do if Track Suit makes any sudden moves. The other walker’s hands are buried deep in the pockets of his jacket. He keeps eye contact with Track Suit until looking down, watching his pockets for any sudden motion. He takes a deep breath. It comes with the scent of clean laundry and soap, neither masculine or feminine—just fresh.

Maybe Track Suit is on his way to work?

When they’ve passed each other, he turns around and walks backwards, ready to have the advantage if Track Suit turns and attacks, but he never looks back. Just keeps walking until he’s a shadow again and then swallowed by the night.

* * *

1:37 a.m. 52 degrees Fahrenheit

He hears music getting closer, Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer.” It arrives and departs with a doppler effect, growing louder and then fading away as car headlights turn to tail lights—a 2018 Camaro passing by. It grounds him to a time and place, even though he never liked the song. Still doesn’t. But his mind is back in high school, on a spring break ski trip to Colorado where he cannot escape the grip of Jon Bon Jovi, his New Jersey buddies, and that damn song!

He’s never been nostalgic, but he understands the appeal. For some, high school days were a perfect time, even though he couldn’t wait to leave. The morning after graduation, he stared at his bedroom ceiling when he woke up, considering what it meant to be so free. Despite promising himself he’d leave that summer and never look back, he ultimately returned: teaching English, the only class he enjoyed, at his old high school.

Matthew did leave after graduation, drifting away and never heard from again. Sometimes, he wonders if the friendship was really that great, or if they were simply two outcasts bound by geography and a desire to make the most of an unfortunate situation. When he bumps into people he once knew around town, they assume those were his best days as well, like a Bryan Adams song. They talk about parties and events he never attended; football games and names he’s long forgotten. To them, time stopped in 1987.

How sad must it be to travel back almost 40 years to feel happy? How strange to wish you could trade in adulthood for the only time you felt like you mattered?

* * *

2:08 a.m. 50 degrees Fahrenheit

The trail widens on the backside of an affluent neighborhood, cobblestones meandering through trees and bushes from other places. Yards that look like fairways and putting greens. He’s heard one of his senators lives behind the gated entrances, along with a boy band, several professional athletes, and a podcaster making millions through misinformation and something techbros devour as philosophy.

Headlights illuminate the road beside him—he turns back to look because now he trusts nothing moving up fast from behind. The car slows and comes to a stop. A cop car. The window goes down, and a face illuminated by the dash and a mobile data computer seems to float before him.

“Evening,” the cop says.

“Hello.”

The cop continues. “Lovely night.”

He nods in agreement, wondering if he’s about to be screened for trouble.

“Have you seen a couple kids on skateboards this evening?”

“No,” he says. “What’s up?”

“Ah, we got a call about a couple kids smoking marijuana in the area.”

He’s happy he didn’t ask for a hit from the joint.

“Naw. I saw several kids skateboarding in Cannon Park, earlier. At the skatepark. But that’s it.”

The cop says, “Thanks,” and then sits there.

He doesn’t know if he should continue on his walk or ask if the cop needs anything else.

“So, you’re just out walking?”

“Yes,” he says. Before the cop can ask more questions, he says, “I know it’s late. Or early, depending how you look at it. I’m walking tonight from sundown the sunrise, so you’ll probably see me around. It’s a long story, but I’m the guy who got hit months back on Tubbs Road. On the bike. Wrecked leg guy. It seemed like the best thing I could do to make sure I’m healed is walk all night. Probably seems weird, but it’s what I’m up to.”

The cop nods. “Oh. Yeah, I remember. That doesn’t seem weird at all. You doing okay?”

“Yeah. I took some time, but I’m good.”

“All right,” the cop says. “Enjoy your walk, then.”

“You too. Your patrol, I mean…not walk. Be safe.”

“I will if you will.”

“Deal.”

* * *

3:22 a.m. 49 degrees Fahrenheit

The Camaro passes him again, this time blaring Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days.” So many happy-sounding tunes with sad lyrics back then he’s not sure some people ever listened to. He wonders if Camaro Guy drives around at night, listening to music from his youth and reminiscing about his glory days. Or maybe he works a night shift and it’s his day off, out running errands or just out and about because—to him—it’s the middle of his waking time. With a slide into looking back and wanting to stay there, he’s not much different than Camaro Guy.

Before Matthew left town for good, he begged him to follow. Even his parents wonder why he’s stuck around.

“Why do you stay there?” His father sometimes asks on their weekly phone call.

“Simple,” he says. “Everyone I know who boasts about all the places they’ve traveled say the same contradictory thing: ‘Always ask locals where they go if you want to really experience a place. Ask them where they eat, what they do for fun, and where they hang out that no tourist knows.’ Well, I’m that local.”

He believes there’s no shame in knowing a place very well. He’s had experiences on local hikes rivaling any trek he’s had in faraway places. A quiet morning on a local trail with his thoughts beats the crowded trek to Machu Picchu—a thing so packed with loud tourists that you try convincing yourself you had a magical experience with 500 other people. But he’s far from some yokel content to stay in a perceived bubble of safety in his hometown. Summers have found him packing up his bikes and heading abroad. He’s climbed the Alpe d’Huez and survived the Galibier descent. Bikepacked his way through Norway, Sweden, and Finland; chased the sun across southern England on the summer solstice. Cycled the length of the Andes and went tip-to-tip across New Zealand on the Aotearoa Route.

As strange as it seems to some that he’s not left the town where he was born, he finds it even stranger to work 60-plus hours a week, and when vacation comes around, still work on the go. Rush through seeing the sights, standing in crowds awaiting your turn to take a photo of the one place everyone knows, but knows little about—because if they did, they’d know meeting schedules and fighting crowds, all so you can return to work and say, “I saw the place!” isn’t much of a break.

The magical places he knows just outside his door are places few ever see. No crowds, noise, or expenses; no missed connections or lost luggage.

And that’s what makes them special.

* * *

4:07 a.m. 48 degrees Fahrenheit

Another figure heads his way; this time, a woman in a Whataburger uniform. Her face glows from the light of her phone, which she seems lost in as she plods along the sidewalk. He clears his throat, hoping to get Whataburger’s attention, but the screen holds her gaze. Earbuds silence the world around her. He steps to the side, into wet grass; says, “Hi,” but Whataburger doesn’t seem to notice.

Were he wired for thievery or violence, it would be easy to take anything he wanted with people lost in screens—in their own bubbles of sound—oblivious to their surroundings.

“We steal so much from ourselves,” he thinks, “fill every gap in time with distraction.”

Two minutes in line at a store is viewed as suffering that can only be soothed by checking social media or messages. He thinks about how often he’s been out riding or hiking, hearing music that doesn’t belong in the space getting closer. Louder. Someone with a wireless speaker attached to their bike or pack deciding anyone seeking the refuge of nature or a back road needs to hear music deemed better than the sound of birds, wind, or the cadence one’s breath. So much lost by fearing even a moment alone in our heads. Thinking about bigger things or facing what we ignore when giving into distractions instead of reflection.

* * *

4:35 a.m. 47 degrees Fahrenheit

The Hill House was a wreck of a place when he was young, and each year it’s gotten worse. Some call it the Psycho House because of its menacing posture on the edge of town, a dilapidated structure visible for miles. To others, it’s simply “the old haunted house.” He wonders what names kids today have for it today; he wonders if it will ever be restored or finally toppled for safety reasons.

In junior high, he accepted a dare to enter the Hill House at midnight during summer break between 7^th and 8^th grade. While camping out with a group of friends in Matthew’s backyard, his best friend—usually the one to accept all dares—encouraged him to enter. He looked at the attic window as he walked up the meandering drive, then told himself to look away. 

Do nothing to build up the tension of imagination.

He went around to the side and pulled back the boards nailed over a window meant to keep kids out, even though everyone under 18 in town knew it was the way in. He expected it to smell musty, but it was more like entering a crypt. The challenge was simple: make his way upstairs to the attic window— wave down to his friends outside to prove he made it. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he went to the staircase and listened.

The creaking he heard would have sent most of his friends back through the boarded-up window and back to their campsite in Matthew’s backyard, but he was logical. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Monsters are only in movies.”

But transients looking for a dry place to sleep and serial killers were neither spirit or beast. Someone genuinely real and dangerous could be upstairs.

“It’s windy,” he told himself. “The house is just shifting.”

On the second floor landing, he thought he heard something in the attic above. A thud—maybe even footsteps. He looked around for a 2×4 or a broom handle—even a loose stone from the primary bedroom fireplace.

No luck.

A fist would have to do.

In a back hallway he opened the door he assumed led to the attic. Creaking hinges erased any stealthy efforts to that moment. Before him was the steepest staircase he’d ever seen. He climbed up, using hands and feet, pausing at the top before bursting up, ready to face anyone who might be there. He knew the most likely culprit would be a friend lying in wait to scare him, and he was prepared to go as far as breaking a nose to teach someone a lesson.

Nothing.

He went to the window and waved down to his friends.

* * *

The boarded-up window is still the way in. It’s a tighter fit, but he squeezes in.

Up the stairs and to the attic entrance. The door leading up is covered with graffiti: a crudely rendered naked woman, a stylized signature tag that looks like “Monster,” and “666” painted over an upside-down cross. There’s something reassuring about it—proof that kids still venture into places they shouldn’t be, like Matthew and him entering the storm drain tunnels beneath Mockingbird Lane.

He opens the door and heads up; goes to the window and looks down like it’s the early 80s and he’s waving to his friends. Of the four companions outside the Hill House that night, one is dead—an aortic dissection in his cubicle on the third day of a new job. Matthew and another have disappeared—never popping up in late-night online searches when they come to mind. The one person from that night who does show up has a Facebook page where he posts angry videos from the comfort of an eighty-thousand-dollar pickup truck that looks like it’s never seen a day of hard work. Not someone he’s interested in contacting.

When he turns away from the window, he sees a shadow expand on the far side of the attic, almost as wide as he is tall. His heart races as he calls out: “I’ll mess you up!” even though he’s never been in a fight.

“Appear strong—confident,” he thinks, even though a strong and confident person would stand readied in silence, not call out with a hollow threat. He’s given away that he’s an easy mark.

More movement, like the shadow from a dream. He squints, trying to make out what’s on the far side of the attic. He imagines Track Suit coming out of the darkness with a knife, but he sees no legs.

When he steps to the side to get a head start to the steep stairway leading down from the attic for escape, it sails toward him like a nightmare. No footfalls against the floor. He rushes to the stairs, feeling a blast of wind behind him on his neck. The sound of wings, and something large dropping to the floor: a turkey vulture, every bit as startled by his presence as he is of it. The bird cranes its head forward and scrutinizes him…maybe its way of saying, “What the hell, man? I was dreaming, and it was a good one! Just cracked into an armadillo, and I was about to feast…”

“Sorry,” he says, while slowly making his way to the stairs.

When he reaches the bottom of the steep staircase, he hears the vulture make its way back to its roost above.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispers—and then leaves the Hill House.

* * *

5:49 a.m. 47 degrees Fahrenheit

A feeling of ease settles into his shoulders as he crosses back into his neighborhood. He thinks about how many after-dinner and even late-night walks he’s taken on these streets. All the good evenings and hellos to people he’s seen for years, but knows nothing about. Good friends only visually.

He rounds a corner and sees the flickering of emergency lights against the brickwork of the houses on the right side of the street. Likely just a cop catching someone speeding, or rolling up on a couple kids like the weed-smoking skateboarders. Another turn, and the street flashes red and blue: too many cop cars and SUVs to count. One of the SUVs blocks the street.

He approaches, and a cop stops him.

“Sir? This area’s closed off.”

He points and says, “I live down there.”

The cop looks at another, who nods.

“Okay, go ahead. But you need to cross the street and stay on that side.”

He wants to ask what happened, but knows they won’t tell him. Keep asking questions, and he’ll be told to walk back around the block and over several streets. He wants to see why so many cops are in his neighborhood.

Between the cars, he spots it: a black barrier like a parade gate covered in fabric. Just outside the perimeter, a Bluetooth headset on the sidewalk. A crime scene investigator looks down and takes photos. The flash pops bright white in his eyes, even among all the emergency lights. During one of the flashes, he sees a pool of blood dripping out beneath the barrier.

Ahead, he spots the cop from earlier in the evening.

“Hey,” he says.

The cop stops talking to two others and says, “Oh, hi.”

“What’s going on?”

The cop looks at the others—looks across the street at the photographer and says, “An investigation.”

“What happened?”

“We’re piecing it together. That’s all I can say right now.”

The chill of the early morning finds its way into his bones. He shivers and thinks, “I’m the only one out here. What if they think it’s me?”

He looks beyond the barriers and notices people at two houses standing on their porches, watching. What if the cops decide to take him in for questioning, how quickly will it spread throughout the neighborhood that he had something to do with it?

“Do you at least know who did it?” he says?

“Yeah,” the cop says. “One of our guys came up on him as it was happening.”

The morning feels even colder. How could such a horrible thing happen so close to home? He always thought it was weird when something like this made the news and it cut to the obligatory quote of someone living nearby saying, “You never think it will happen in your neighborhood…”

“Well, y’all be safe,” he says and continues on his way.

He passes an SUV surrounded by more cops than others. He looks inside as he walks by. In the back, behind the driver’s side, is the man in the black track suit. Track Suit looks at him and nods; smiles, as if to say, “You got really lucky this evening.”

* * *

6:21 a.m. 48 degrees Fahrenheit

As he passes his house, he thinks about how close he might have come to his end; instead, it’s likely an early morning jogger crossed the wrong guy at the wrong time. Couldn’t hear their surroundings over the music.

“What was it,” he thinks, “that made Track Suit pass me by?”

Why someone else when it could have been him?

It could have been him when he was hit on his bike; could have been him on his sunset-to-sunrise walk. Could have been him so many times in his life: all the near-miss car wrecks, T cells destroying cancer before having a chance to take hold, that time as a kid when all the cheese slid off a slice of pizza and lodged in his throat. For all the comforts in life, it’s easy to forget we’re just as susceptible to the whims of circumstance as wild animals: here one moment, and gone the next.

The black sky gives way to deep blue as he heads east to Olander Park. Stars that guided him all night blink out, losing brilliance to an ever-glowing light on the horizon. He finds a spot in the center of a soccer field overlooking Griffith Lake. Just as the sun begins to break the horizon, a hissing sound startles him.

Sprinklers!

He laughs as the water instantly soaks him. Of course the moment he looked forward to all night didn’t work out as planned. Despite the chill in the air, he doesn’t move. The pain of the past seven months is washed clean, the shock from the surprise soaking clears his head. No longer is he thinking about the cops back in his neighborhood—he’ll find out what happened in time. No longer thinking about the accident.

Instead, he thinks about all before him.

To say the time since he was hit by the truck hasn’t had a profound effect on him would be an injustice to his healing. All that time to think while recovering, living with an absolute he always knew: anytime can be our time.

As the sun warms his face, it becomes clear: there’s no need for profound change—at least right now. His life is good, and sucking the marrow out of life is a desperate act that soon runs out. Thoughts of an early retirement fade away like an armadillo lumbering off into the night. Why turn away from teaching English to kids when he’s been there and can help them figure it all out? He’s happy to be the local who knows his hometown like few others, but also the guy who has summers free to travel and find his equivalent in other places, kindred spirits bound to a place like him. His body still works, despite it having been broken and getting older each day.

That’s not a bad way to live.

When the sprinklers stop, he lies on his back until the sun dries him. When its warmth turns to heat, he gets up and walks home—giving  no cares to what dreams await him on the other side of sleep.

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Joseph Beg, licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month—or even free—you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

In July, it’s either going to be the thriller/mystery story featuring characters from “Godspeed, Crazy Mike” or a fantasy. Or even, as I mentioned up front, something else entirely. I’m still doing a little healing from the procedure in March, but there will be a July story!

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!