My brakes felt too forgiving, so every half-hour I topped off the fluid and pumped up the pedal while watching, surreptitiously, my rearview mirrors, and imagining Reese just over the hill, behind the wheel of a sedan, with a cup of coffee and a glowing cigarette. I turned onto a side road and pulled over around a bend to wait for my nemesis, but he never materialized. My paranoia waned after that, and, idling by a hayfield, I ate a leftover square of cold lasagna off aluminum foil before getting back on the highway. It was the time of year when a lot of bugs die against your windshield. Twice, crows intent on roadkill refused to scatter until I loomed too large to be ignored. Around Forks, the mills were blowing smoke, and the yards beside them were decked high with logs. I laid in some groceries—I spent more of John William’s $70,000—and then drove to the South Fork Hoh trailhead, where I let my shoulders rest after battling all that friction in the steering box. The place felt sinister, though.
