banged on it so
loudly that an angry neighbor popped out next door and threatened to call the
police if he didn’t stop.
Noah gave up and went
back to the dorm. He spent the rest of the day trying every possible way he
could think of to contact Lisa, starting with an attempt to pull up her
Facebook page. Here, though, was another shock. The page had been
deactivated. After that, he tried calling her again. The call went straight
to voicemail. Several more calls throughout the day met with the same result.
He didn’t know it at the time, but hearing her voicemail message was the last
time he would hear her voice. After that, he tried contacting mutual
acquaintances for information, but no one would talk to him.
He hit the same
unyielding brick wall no matter what he tried.
Days passed with no
word from Lisa. Her friends remained utterly uncommunicative. Eventually, he
came to understand the painful truth. It was as Melanie had said that first
day. She was gone and she wasn’t coming back. He’d probably never see her
again.
And he’d probably never
know why.
Some other guys in Noah’s
dorm noticed his abject despondency and took pity on him. They got him drunk.
They bought him as much booze as he wanted and he wanted a lot. Noah never
attended another class at the University of Memphis. He returned home in
December in shame and despair.
11 .
Noah woke early the next day and
spent several hours preparing for his departure. The only backpack he had on
hand was an old-fashioned one with a large external aluminum frame. He loaded
it with an array of things, including a pup tent, a sleeping bag, food
supplies, extra clothes, some of the old western paperbacks from his cache, an
old road atlas, and as much extra ammunition for the rifle and the two handguns
he’d also be bringing with him as he could cram into it. The rest of his gear,
which included, among other things, two large canteens and a hunting knife,
would be stored on a sturdy utility belt.
After a fierce bit of
internal debate, he reopened the pack and shifted things around as best he
could to make room for two fifth bottles of Maker’s Mark. He also bundled up
about a pound of weed and stored that in the pack, too. The wisdom of taking
these things with him was iffy at best, but it was going to be a long trip.
Something to take the edge off now and then seemed necessary.
When he was done with
his preparations, Noah carried the pack out to the porch and leaned it against
the rail. After strapping on the utility belt, he went back inside to fetch
the rifle. He took a final look around at the cabin’s interior, thinking back
on the lonely years he’d spent here. Despite his pride in the survival skills
he’d developed during his time in this place, he was surprised to realize how
little he would actually miss it. There were no good memories here. This was
a desolate place, a hermit’s sad refuge.
Back out on the porch,
he leaned the rifle against the rail next to the backpack and took a seat on
the top step. After squinting out at the bright sunlight for a moment, he took
the revolver from the holster on his utility belt and set it next to him on the
porch. Then he dug into his hip pocket and took out the only picture he had
left of Lisa Thomas.
This picture was from
one of those photo booth strips. Like every other young couple who’d ever sat
in one of those booths together, he and Lisa had mugged for the camera. Only
in this picture, the one at the bottom of the strip, had Lisa’s expression been
somewhat normal. It showed her smirking and looking every bit as beautiful as
he remembered. She looked sexy and mischievous,
loudly that an angry neighbor popped out next door and threatened to call the
police if he didn’t stop.
Noah gave up and went
back to the dorm. He spent the rest of the day trying every possible way he
could think of to contact Lisa, starting with an attempt to pull up her
Facebook page. Here, though, was another shock. The page had been
deactivated. After that, he tried calling her again. The call went straight
to voicemail. Several more calls throughout the day met with the same result.
He didn’t know it at the time, but hearing her voicemail message was the last
time he would hear her voice. After that, he tried contacting mutual
acquaintances for information, but no one would talk to him.
He hit the same
unyielding brick wall no matter what he tried.
Days passed with no
word from Lisa. Her friends remained utterly uncommunicative. Eventually, he
came to understand the painful truth. It was as Melanie had said that first
day. She was gone and she wasn’t coming back. He’d probably never see her
again.
And he’d probably never
know why.
Some other guys in Noah’s
dorm noticed his abject despondency and took pity on him. They got him drunk.
They bought him as much booze as he wanted and he wanted a lot. Noah never
attended another class at the University of Memphis. He returned home in
December in shame and despair.
11 .
Noah woke early the next day and
spent several hours preparing for his departure. The only backpack he had on
hand was an old-fashioned one with a large external aluminum frame. He loaded
it with an array of things, including a pup tent, a sleeping bag, food
supplies, extra clothes, some of the old western paperbacks from his cache, an
old road atlas, and as much extra ammunition for the rifle and the two handguns
he’d also be bringing with him as he could cram into it. The rest of his gear,
which included, among other things, two large canteens and a hunting knife,
would be stored on a sturdy utility belt.
After a fierce bit of
internal debate, he reopened the pack and shifted things around as best he
could to make room for two fifth bottles of Maker’s Mark. He also bundled up
about a pound of weed and stored that in the pack, too. The wisdom of taking
these things with him was iffy at best, but it was going to be a long trip.
Something to take the edge off now and then seemed necessary.
When he was done with
his preparations, Noah carried the pack out to the porch and leaned it against
the rail. After strapping on the utility belt, he went back inside to fetch
the rifle. He took a final look around at the cabin’s interior, thinking back
on the lonely years he’d spent here. Despite his pride in the survival skills
he’d developed during his time in this place, he was surprised to realize how
little he would actually miss it. There were no good memories here. This was
a desolate place, a hermit’s sad refuge.
Back out on the porch,
he leaned the rifle against the rail next to the backpack and took a seat on
the top step. After squinting out at the bright sunlight for a moment, he took
the revolver from the holster on his utility belt and set it next to him on the
porch. Then he dug into his hip pocket and took out the only picture he had
left of Lisa Thomas.
This picture was from
one of those photo booth strips. Like every other young couple who’d ever sat
in one of those booths together, he and Lisa had mugged for the camera. Only
in this picture, the one at the bottom of the strip, had Lisa’s expression been
somewhat normal. It showed her smirking and looking every bit as beautiful as
he remembered. She looked sexy and mischievous,
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