A man stood directly in front of us, maybe a hundred yards ahead, silhouetted in headlights, all yellow and black.  Umbrella and what looked like a hunting rifle.  The umbrella said I’m here to help, but the rifle told me to ignore the umbrella.  I stopped the car. 

            “Should I shut the lights off?” I asked.  “What the fuck man?  Is this it or not?”

            Davis said, “Back up.”

            The man walked forward.  Dropped the rifle to his side.  Did he yell something, or was that Davis?

            “We’ll never make it down that mountain in reverse,” I said. 

            “Then get out of the car,” Davis said, opening the door.  “At least I can run while he’s busy killing you.”

            Didn’t feel so much like summer in the dripping darkness.  Davis raised his right hand, offered a salutation.

            The man halted progress.  He looked grizzled.  Forties.  Privacy nut or meth lab operator, either one dangerous enough.  Appeared physically fit.  He stepped to his left, out of the headlights, a frightening twenty yards directly in front of Davis.  Rested the rifle against his hip, pointed it my direction.  The umbrella remained upright. 

            “Don’t know what you’re doing here,” the man said calmly, “but you should turn right back around the way you came.” 

            I looked across the roof of the car at Davis.

            “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Davis said.  “We got ourselves a little lost out in this rain.  Looking for….”

            “Let me stop you right there, son.”  He spoke eloquently, the accent thick, but clear, low in timbre.  “You don’t want me to ask you to leave again.”

            Davis moved slightly forward.  The rifle turned its attention.  “Larry.  Is that you?”

            The man lifted the umbrella.  The rifle stared intently with its one good eye. 

            Davis took another step forward.  “It’s me.  Marcia’s son, Davis.  What’s it been, like, eight years since you and my mom split up?”

            The reply tumbled out of his barrel chest, a rumble of bass, perfectly spaced words and elocution.  “What business you got here, Davis?  I know you didn’t come looking for me.”

            I kept silent, began to believe I might not die.  Davis yelled above the rain, “It’s kinda funny.  I was looking for someone else, thought this was the right place.  Complete fucking accident, man.  Small world, huh?”  

            The rifle swung right, stared intently at my chest.  “Who sent you?” he asked Davis.

            Davis’s voice shot up a register.  “No one sent us did they, man?” he asked, turning to me.  I shook my head no, vigorously, my eyes like maracas of panic.  “We’ll just get in the car and get out of your hair, man.  You didn’t see us, and we sure as hell didn’t see you.”

            The rifle thought for a moment, I counted forty-nine seconds, seemed more like the entirety of my life.  “What is it you seek, Davis?” 

            “A duck mailbox, painted green and brown.”  I stared holes through Davis, began to think I might die again. 

            The rifle said, “You need to head back on down the road another three miles or so.  Turn right down Rocket Rd.  The mailbox is another two miles south.”

            “Thanks, Larry, that’s really co–”

            The rifle pointed skyward and boomed with enthusiasm.  Took a moment for composure after proving its seriousness.  “Don’t make the same mistake twice,” the man said.    

            I don’t have to tell you our actions were swift.

***