Three: Finger Wrong Turn

Three miles later, the trees closed in. The GPS spun its little wheel of futility. And the road, once gravel, then mud, then just two tire tracks through wet leaves, gave out entirely.

That’s when I saw them: three fence posts, each leaning the same direction, each marked with a single red finger of paint. A local code, maybe. Or a warning. three finger wrong turn

I killed the engine. Somewhere in the dark, an owl laughed. Three miles later, the trees closed in