“If you’re looking for the river, you just missed it. Easy to miss, most people only see the billboard on that same corner.” He must have noticed how blank our faces were.
“You didn’t see the billboard either?” He scanned the camping gear in the back of our truck. “The one that says ABORTION KILLS in big purple letters?”
“Yeah, I saw it,” my wife said, then sighed, her huge belly protruding. “But we’re not looking for the river.”
“We’re looking for some cabins called Rivers Glen,” I said. “Are they back that way?”
The man stroked his beard. I noticed his eyes were two different colors, or one moved strangely, floating randomly in its socket. “They’re over in Bristol,” he pointed. “’Bout ten miles further up. Follow the river road.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said.
As we pulled away, Karla said, “Why’d you tell him where we’re staying?” She looked back through the cab window, one hand on the baby.
“Yes, you mentioned Rivers Glen.”
“I only said we were looking.”
“Well, we’re not looking to buy, Tim.”
“You’re paranoid.” I wasn’t willing to admit it: he creeped me out, too.
“I’m sensible. You don’t go giving personal details to complete strangers. That’s all we need. Santa Claus to show up at our fire pit.”
I chuckled but knew she was right. I stared out at the stream, packets of fog in dancing patterns, soaring off the stream, their misty shapes disappearing into sunlight.