EARL LOST AND FOUND

Somewhere out there, distant, deeper in the woods, you hear faint chittering. You grip your tennis racket tighter and sweep the flashlight beam across the treeline. Nothing moves in the pale circle of light, and the sounds seem to be moving away rather than closer.

Then your flashlight catches a shape against the dark trunk of a pine tree about twenty yards away. You approach cautiously, racket at the ready, and discover Earl Brookfield sprawled unconscious beneath the low-hanging branches. A nasty welt decorates his forehead, and angry red scratches crisscross his face like he went ten rounds with an angry house cat. His breathing is steady but labored.

“Well, well,” you mutter, playing the flashlight over his still form. “Guess we’re even now, Earl.”

Time to move.

You kneel beside Earl and rifle through his pockets with practiced efficiency. Wallet (fair’s fair, considering what you took from his store), pack of gum (tempting, but no), and finally—there—your car keys, warm from his body heat. You pocket them with a grim smile.

Earl groans softly and shifts against the tree roots, but doesn’t wake. The scratches on his face look fresh, and there’s something sticky in his hair that you’d rather not examine too closely in the dark. Whatever happened after he stole your car, it wasn’t pleasant.

“Sweet dreams, Earl,” you whisper, standing up. “Try not to get eaten while I’m gone.”

The walk back to your car feels longer than it should, though the distant chittering seems to be fading. You pour both gas cans into the tank—the glug-glug-glug sounds obscenely loud in the night air—and toss the empty containers in the back seat. The engine turns over on the first try, settling into its familiar steady purr.

The drive back to Brookfield Market takes five minutes. Your headlights sweep across the empty parking lot as you pull up near the entrance, illuminating the pile of supplies you’d stashed outside earlier—your hard-won provisions waiting in the fluorescent spill from the store’s interior lights.

You step out of the car and begin loading: the camping gear, canned goods, bottled water, first aid supplies, and everything else you’d managed to gather before Early’s desperate gambit. Each item goes into the backseat methodically, your movements quick but deliberate. The generator stays where you left it—too heavy, too cumbersome for the journey ahead.

Within minutes, the car is packed and you’re back behind the wheel. Earl’s still unconscious under that oak tree two miles away, and forty miles of squirrel-infested road stretch between you and the safety of Millerville. Time to find out what the night has in store.