42. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED SHOT

The fire died slowly, the sky slowly lightened. Pal was bunched up in her sleeping bag but her eyes were half open. “I’m awake,” she said.

“I hope so,” I said. “Otherwise you’d be sleeping with your eyes half open.”

We had to shake Marty awake. He woke up with his tail wagging, yawned, shook himself out and farted.

“I won’t miss that part,” Pal said. “Oh, my Marty-moo.”

“Don’t start,” I said.

“I wasn’t,” she said, wiping her eyes.

The footbridge was messed up from the spring floods. Here and there patches of cement had fallen from it, leaving holes big enough for a person or even a 390-pound pig to fall through.

Marty sat at the edge of the bridge and groinked, like, No way I’m crossing that rickety mess. I pulled out a jar of marsh butter, which was a homemade mix of marshmallows and peanut butter. I spooned it onto the safe parts of the bridge as I crossed it, and Marty trotted right along, licking up the plops.

On the other side the old pasture was a jumble of moldy refrigerators and torn tires and worst of all signs posted on every tree, right at eye level, so they would be impossible to miss:

PRIVATE PROPERTY.

NO DUMPING.

NO HUNTING.

NO TRESPASSING.

VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED. SHOT

We leaned in closer to see the small print:

OWNER: MASON REALTY

“Figures,” I said.

“He owns every acre from here to Pittsburgh by now, I bet you,” Pal said.

“Maybe you need to wait here,” I said.

“Oh, you mean the big strong man doesn’t think the helpless little woman can survive this last stretch of the battle?”

“Fine, then you take him the rest of the way and I’ll wait here. They probably have security guards patrolling.”

“Not likely,” Pal said. “What’s there to steal except broken washing machines and burned cars? They’re just trying to scare people enough to keep them from dumping their junk here, and look how well that’s worked. Renz, he’s my friend too. The longer we stand here arguing, the more likely we get caught. It’s less than a mile. Good quick walk, we’re at the sanctuary gate in fifteen minutes. C’mon, Marty.” She went and he followed.

The breeze had stopped and the air felt dead, no bird sounds either, no cicadas. We were maybe three-quarters of the way through the field when Pal said, “So far so good.”

“Keep going,” I said. “Come on, Marty. No time for a pee break.”

But he wouldn’t budge. He kept his leg lifted for a solid minute. “Okay, bud, enough.” I toed him to get a move on. The weed trees broke into a clearing, and the sanctuary fence was in sight, fifty yards away—less.

“I can’t believe we made it,” I said.

“We didn’t,” Pal said. She was looking over my shoulder, pointing at something behind me, and she was pale. I turned around to look at what had her so upset, and there he was.