I’m 13 and terrified, running as fast as the fading dusk allows. Fright and exertion trap my breath high in my chest above a tangle of live wires. A girl my age was raped here.
I think I know how to get back to the campground. Three hours ago this trail was lit by late-day sun, and I was following a new friend back to her house.
We’re camping in northern Michigan, having driven from western Minnesota in a 1970 International Travelall towing a pop-up camper, the kind with a handle you crank and crank and crank to raise the top and then pull out and brace the ends to support the beds — age-darkened amber foam pads disintegrating at the edges.