In the woods between Will and Lewis’s house, there was an enormous tree. Oak, perhaps, with long, thick branches. Many of these branches hung low to the ground, and from every available spot, sprouted leaves. These were ripe and full leaves, deep, dark green, and plump enough that you half expected them to make wet, squishing sounds if you squeezed them.

The roots of the tree were strange in that the trunk, at its base, was actually two trees. Sometime, probably around the time Christopher Columbus’s merry band was raping the Bahamas, these two trees had come together and merged, joining about four feet off the ground, forming a kind of inverted Y.

The bark of this tree was rough, but covered with a thick layer of moss, making it almost soft in places. Between the bark was a thick, viscous sap; Black, or perhaps dark, dark red.

Higher up, there were violent, jagged rifts in the bark, testament to an ill-conceived plot to chop the tree down, or perhaps the last remnant of a lightning strike in time beyond memory.

The full, lush canopy of leaves that this tree produced created a section of shadow in the woods that was almost like an underground burrow. Seeing into it was nearly impossible during daylight, and no easier at night.

In the middle of this ancient tree, below where the trunks met, was a teardrop-shaped alcove. This alcove was so dark it seemed like a hole in reality. It’s not until you were close that you could tell that it was simply a depression between the trunks, shielded from light completely from nearly every direction.

In this depression sat a man.

The man’s face was oval, with a strong chin and cheekbones. His eyes, slightly olive shaped, were a deep violet. His nose was strong and aquiline, with just enough of a hook to be attractive. His lips were small, but well-shaped.

The man’s hair was raven black, silky, and combed straight back from his forehead, exposing the hint of a widow’s peak. His facial hair was groomed into a simple mustache outlining his upper lip.

The man was dressed in an exquisite pinstripe suit that was the blue of the bottom of an ocean. His tie, white and silky, was neatly tucked into his jacket.

He was sitting cross-legged in the bowl of dirt between the trunks, a trim leather-bound journal with rough, thick ivory pages resting in his lap. It was open to a page somewhere in the middle of the journal, and both open pages were blank.

The man was holding a fat fountain pen over the journal, poised to write, the tip bloated with black ink.

The man was staring across the yard at Will Hale.

Will reached down, and with calm hands, opened the breech of the shotgun. The shells ejected, flying behind him to clatter on the porch.

Will fumbled around on the porch for a moment, then located whatever he was searching for. He reached up and slid one, then two shells into the shotgun. He snapped the breech closed.

The man in the alcove tensed and leaned forward.

Will sat in contemplation for a moment. Then, with deliberate motions, he placed the butt of the shotgun on the bottom porch step. He placed his thumb on the trigger, his mouth on the barrel, and leaned forward.

As the body toppled down the steps, the man nodded sharply, released a pent-up breath, and leaned back, focusing his attention on the notebook.

He wrote, the nib of the pen making sharp scratching noises on the textured paper. After some time, the man capped his pen, which he returned to the inside pocket of his jacket.

On the paper, his writing stood out in stark contrast:

Results: Successful evolution, high emotional content from subject

Problems:
Need more guilt

Solutions:

More intense arguments
More missed calls!
Tempt affair?


The man closed the leather journal. Embossed on the cover was a name and two dates.

William Hale

8/14/1992 – 6/19/2022