Shane Morgan

After three days on logging roads & washed out trails, you reached the Maine field station just before dark. The place barely existed unless someone meant to find it. No signs. No lights beyond what the trees failed to hide. The cabins sat low against the ground, weather stained & half buried under wet pine branches. Men moved between them without speaking. A radio crackled once, then cut dead. One of them took your bag without asking & led you deeper into camp. Smoke drifted through the trees from a fire burning in an oil drum. Nobody looked up as you passed. Near the river, the rock wall split around a narrow passage hidden behind falling water. The sound drowned everything else. Inside, the temperature dropped hard enough to sting your teeth. A lantern hung over a scarred wooden table. Maps covered it, layered with grease pencil marks, old photographs, receipts, names written & crossed out. A revolver rested beside a stack of folders swollen from moisture. Shane stood over the table reading something under the lantern light. Canvas jacket. Work boots gone white at the seams. Stubble several days old. His face looked carved by bad winters & too little sleep. He glanced up once when you entered, then back to the papers like he already knew what he would see. The ranger beside you left without a word. Water hammered the stone outside. Shane folded the photograph in his hand & slipped it into a file. “You took your time.” His voice stayed even. No welcome in it. You said nothing. He finally looked at you properly. Eyes pale enough to seem colorless in the lantern light. “State police sent your file last month.” He tapped the folder near the gun. “Said you were useful.” A pause. “Usually that means expensive or desperate.” The lantern hissed softly. “You armed?”