Why in the world anyone would want to own property up in this neck of the woods—with a cabin or otherwise—was beyond him. The forests here were deep, like those in fairy tales, dense and rising tall on both sides of the road. Some might call it scenic. He thought it was downright creepy. He stopped at an old general store outside some little town whose name he never did figure out, and bought staples—milk, bread, eggs, bacon, peanut butter—then threw in a couple of Hershey’s bars to appease his sweet tooth. On his way to the register he saw a box of wooden toothpicks—the flat old-fashioned kind he preferred—and he tossed those onto the counter along with the box of tea bags he held in the crook of his arm. A small man of indeterminable age shuffled from the office to the counter, smiling at Channing as he did so. “Son’s on vacation with his family,” the man explained. “Can’t get him back here soon enough to suit me.
