val, I sent Ethan a text

led 'Mountain Service Road 12B'. It' s a b

untain. It was an unpaved, rugged, and poorly maintained log

ng room, sipping a cu

unknown number. I let it go to voicemail. The message, when it came throu

IS A MUD PIT! THE CAR IS STUCK! WE'VE BEEN WALK

the voicemail, and

t of the tree line, looking like miserable, half-frozen refugees.

oor just as they sta

d, putting on my best horrifie

fury. He lunged for me. "Y

"caretaker," stepped between us. He didn't even grab Ethan. He just put

at," Marcus said, his voic

n in front of him. His father, a portly man named Jim, and his mother, a pinched-face

is this?" Et

etaker. I'm so sorry, Ethan! Did I give you the wrong road name? I get them mix

he ditzy, apologetic girlfriend to perfectio

hought, wiped his runny nose directly on the designer wallpaper. It was a pale, textured silk pape

e, I jus

he screamed. A high-pi

NS! MY HAND!

s face contorted in pain. Karen and Ethan

ped that exact spot on the wall with a cloth soaked in a clear, concentrated capsaicin extract. The stuff they u

cried, rushing forward with a

ed by the screaming, spu

k," I announced cheerfully. "Don't worry, I'v