Curled up on the ground beneath a tall cedar, Denver awoke from his nap with a shiver. Honey Creek whispered nearby. The sun had gone down and evening brought along an unseasonable chill. Cold enough to rattle your bones, Granny Goat would say. Light mist rose from the ground, collecting in pockets of fog along the creek bed. Denver wanted his jacket and a pair of warm socks. He could practically see them. His winter socks in the top left drawer of his broken-down dresser; his jacket over the doorknob. Denver, called Mama, don’t go out without your hat and gloves.
     He recalled fondly the walks to Granny Goat’s house. How they became a long and mysterious journey on a foggy autumn day. Tracing lines in the dew along the porch railing, then tripping across the soggy grass, feeling the wetness seep through the seams of his athletic shoes. The rhododendrons sparkling in the fractured porch light. Granny always had hot chocolate waiting for him when he finally arrived, and oatmeal. She sat in her rocker and crocheted and told him stories. But he didn’t pay too much attention. He would rather be watching television.
     Only Granny Goat didn’t have a television.

     Denver struggled to his feet, wondering where Saphronia had gone. He looked around, but she was nowhere in sight. He nearly called out, but something held him back. There might be bears. Or some other thing in this forest. Instead, he stood still and listened to the night. To the frogs croaking nearby. Somewhere a bird called out a melodic line. Tra-tra-treeeee. He had never heard a songbird sing at night before.
     From the direction of the creek, a kerplop, like a rock thrown into the water. The forest hushed. Only the sound of the creek and the slightest rustling of leaves remained. On the other side of the foggy bank, a light flickered dimly. He moved cautiously toward it, following a narrow trail down the creek bank. When he reached the creek, the fog was thick. The stream seemed an impassable barrier. Not just one, but several lights danced there in the mist. Shadows moved from spark to spark amid hushed voices. Maybe the shadow of trees stirred up by the night air. Maybe the voices of Honey Creek talking.
     Hatlvwig’ta?
     Tlayaquan’ta. Kalvgv.
     Gayasihas?
     Tla. Ugineli….
     The voices faded. The fog thickened until light and shadow became one, and Denver stumbled, blind, back up the creek bank. Frightened, nearly frantic, he cried out, “Saphronia.” From somewhere far away came that low, horrible moan. Not really threatening. Just there, as though it were in some deep place inside of him.
     She wouldn’t just abandon him here, would she? He had been acting like a spoiled brat. He smiled at the thought of her, the funny girl in a dirty yellow dress, standing over him in that corn field. Why did he have be such an idiot all the time?
     When he was far enough from the foggy creek to see the path, he made his way back to the cedar tree. He should stay where she left him, so she could find him again. Cold and scared, he lay there for a long time grabbing some comfort from the night bird’s song. Looking up at the stars, hoping that an answer might come down from there. A spaceship. Or an angel.

     Tra-tra-treeeee, sang the night bird. Tra-tra-treeeee. He looked up into the dark branches, hoping to get a glimpse of it in the moonlight.
     “Waguli,” said a voice in the darkness.
     “What’s that?”
     “The whippoorwill. You might see him if you look long enough.”
     He turned to where Saphronia stood in the shadows, not knowing whether to be happy or furious.
     “How long have you been standing there?” he asked.
     “I’ve been watching you for awhile.” She smiled. Her hands held a small bundle.
     “What’s that?”
     “A blanket and some food.”
     “Food!” Suddenly his hunger returned.
     “Uganasta. Pudding. Made from corn mash.”
     “Where did you get it?”
     “Some travelers. Down there.” She motioned in the direction of the creek.
She handed him a roughly-hewn wooden bowl filled with a brown gelatinous lump. He stuck in a tentative finger and tested a small bite. It had a slightly sour, fermented taste, sweetened a little. He wondered if it was safe to eat, even as he scooped the food into his mouth as fast as he could.
     “Do they know where we are?”
     “They didn’t know. They aren’t from here.”
     “Oh,” he said. It seemed a bit peculiar. Travelers by the creek. Giving up a blanket and a bowl of food.
     He continued to eat without saying anything. He had devoured most of the food before he realized that he hadn’t shared with Saphronia. He held out the bowl to her.
     “Want some?”
     “I’m not hungry.”
     “You gotta eat.”
     “I had some before.”
     He didn’t believe her, but he was too hungry to argue. “Suit yourself.” He quickly shoveled the rest of it in.
     Denver put down the bowl and stood. A cold numbness had moved from his toes to his feet and up his ankles. His bare arms and legs were covered with goose bumps, and he began to pace to get his circulation going.
     “You cold?” Saphronia had wrapped the blanket around herself and looked warm and comfortable. The smile on her face irritated him.
     “I’m alright.” He snapped.
     “We can share.” She held out one end of the blanket, invitingly.
     “I said I’m alright.” His pacing became agitated.
     “Suit yourself,” she said.

     In a cloud of dust, Denver stumbled off down the trail toward the creek, navigating clumsily through the fog to the creek bank. There he huddled under a tree, listening to the water spit and churn, until his fury subsided.
In time the frogs, hushed by his noisy intrusion, came out of hiding and resumed their chorus. Occasionally the fog thinned and the flickering lights became visible. Voices spoke in that strange language.
     Then the fog lifted, and the flickering lights came into a kind of focus. Not like the crisp focus of a spring morning, or even the familiar view through the summer city haze. More like an old blurry photograph, where the camera moved slightly, just at the wrong instant.
     The flickers became a dozen campfires. Around the fires huddled men, women and children, as others danced in eerie silence a kind of ghost dance. Denver saw an old woman hunkered, poking at coals with a stick, her eyes glazed, fixed on the dying embers. Her eyes like the eyes of those homeless people who lived down by the river in the summertime. Empty eyes that swallowed the world whole, all of its beauty and ugliness, their broken hearts no longer able to tell the difference. All of it, the beauty, the hideousness, going down into their empty guts. Turned to bile. No nourishment. No satisfaction. Just bile. Sucking it in like that stuff Mama put into her arm. It was never enough. Nothing was ever enough.
     Something had been ripped out of Mama. A piece of her. And nothing Denver knew of could make up for it. Not even his love.
     He stood there for a long time in the shadows at the edge of the encampment, watching from across the shallow creek, frightened. Not able to enter yet unable to remove himself. These people had given him food, a blanket. These empty-eyed strangers.
     Then the old woman who stirred the embers looked up. Looked right at him.
“Unisi,” she said. “Dehana.”
     Denver nearly stepped from the shadows. But a young boy ran out of the bushes in front of him.
     “Vv enisi,” the boy said, whirling a stick in the air. As the boy walked slowly toward the old woman the fog began to descend again and the scene became like a memory. Like the memory of a dream.
     From far down the creek came that that ungodly moan again. He shivered.
“What is it?”� asked Saphronia from behind him. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder.
     He jumped. “God. Do’t scare me like that. I didn’t even hear you.”
     “m sorry,”� she said.
     “You heard it too.”�
     “Yes. What is it?”� she repeated.
     “I don’t know.”
     His eyes met hers for a brief moment, and he feared that she would see his hopelessness. His childishness. Instead, she reached out and put something in his mouth. A tiny, wild strawberry. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste, feeling ashamed of himself.
     “I guess I’ve kinda been a pain in the ass.”� he said as she put another strawberry in her own mouth.
     “Yes,”� she laughed at the phrase. “A pain in the ass.”�
     She extended her hand. “Let’s go back up. Get some rest.”
     He took her hand and she helped him to his feet. He followed her quietly to the top of the hill, and waited, expectantly for her to make the first move.
     “Go ahead, lay down,”� she said, “sleep.”�
     Obediently, he lay down on his side as she put the blanket over him. Then she climbed under the blanket in front of him, snuggling close against him. Like two spoons on the rough ground, her hair brushing his cheek, her warmth radiating into his body. He became suddenly aware of his awkwardness. He put one arm under his head to cushion it from the ground. But he fidgeted nervously and tried to find an acceptable place to rest the other. He tried curling it up but it was uncomfortable. He straightened it out but withdrew it when he found his hand resting on her thigh.
     “Oh, for heaven sake,” she sighed. Reaching behind herself, she took his hand and drew his arm to her. He was grateful that she had solved his dilemma.
     As they lay there he became aware of the soft press of her breast against his forearm. He took in the smell of her. Her scent unlike that of other girls he knew. No bubblegum and fingernail polish. It was earthy and intoxicating. He breathed deeply. Woodsmoke and honeysuckle. And something else. Something that made his heart race. He felt an embarrassing stirring in his loins. Maybe she won’t notice, he thought. He waited for her to turn around, slap him. Pervert.
     Finally, the fire calmed, and he lay there, his arm anchored around her. A tear falling silently down his cheek.
     “Saphronia,”� he whispered, “would you sing?”
     For a long moment she didn’t stir. Then softly she sang a soothing chant, a familiar lullaby, ha-mama, ha-mama, udalehi, hilunna, hilunna….