Owen, like any other teenage boy, had his secrets. And like any other teenage boy, most of them were silly and embarrassing. Like the porn carelessly hidden on his computer, like the cum stains that stiffened his sheets. But he had others too. Not so silly.  

He punched out at the little corner grocery store at 7:00pm after getting first off, and there was a spring in his step when he walked up the hill to Cypress Street. From there, he planned to walk to where it terminated at the start of the woods, and from there, indulge in his secret hobby.  

Earlier, when he’d punched in before noon, there had nary been a cloud in the sky, but it hard rained in the afternoon. The air was wet and damp, but fresh. The sky overhead was clearing to the west, but remained overcast, which suited Owen just fine. Stormy weather made him feel comfortable because it kept people indoors and let him walk around just as if he was the last man on Earth.  

His father had called him a few times at work, his voice already slurred with alcohol, asking him to bring home something for supper. Owen told him he wouldn’t be home for supper and the old man had hung up on him. And that suited him too. One of these days the old man would get what was coming to him. The alcohol would do him in a fiery wreck on the highway, the smoking would rot him with cancer from the inside out, and Owen would be happy when that day finally came. After all, he was the man who killed Owen’s mother. It would be cosmic justice.  

He heard voices up ahead at one of the few houses before the street ended. Girl laughter. He looked up through his thick bangs as he loped along the street and saw a couple of teenage girls sitting on a swing set. He recognized them both from being sophomores last year; Amanda, who was a trashy white girl who wore a lot of makeup that barely concealed her zits, and Emiliana, a genuinely slutty Hispanic from one of the few non white families in town. The laughing continued, but when he looked up he saw them watching him then giggled and spoke secret things. He angrily shoved his hair away from his eyes and walked on.  

“Hey, Owen,” one of them called, all sing-songy, like a tease. He looked up and acknowledged them with a wave, but didn’t stop. “Where you going?”  

“Nowhere,” he said. “Just walking.” He looked at them. Amanda was sitting on the swing with one foot up on it. He could see up her skirt, but not all the way up. Emiliana was sitting astride the other one the way she rode the jocks on the team. Probably. He plowed onward.  

“Hey, wait up!” one of them called. He stopped and they caught up to him. Emiliana was the bolder of the two. Amanda held back toying with the zipper on her jacket and looking at him through thick mascara. Owen squirmed. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie and looked anywhere but at the girls. “My brother was in your grade. Emanuel?”  

“Yeah, sure. Emanuel.”  

“He says you can get weed, the good stuff. Right? You can get it, right?”  

“Nah,” Owen shrugged. “That was way last year. My guy got busted.”  

“So you can’t get anything, man?” Amanda said. Her mouth was open in a stupid, sullen gape. “What the fuck good are you?”  

Owen turned away from them and continued on his way, but they kept calling after him. “You fuckin faggot. My brother’s gonna cut you up!” He thrust his head down between his shoulders and strode on. After years of taunts like these, it was water rolling off a duck’s back. They had no more meaning for him.  

Turn around, you pussy.  

Owen stopped dead. He turned around as he was told, but all he could see were the two girls walking back across the street. There was nobody else. His eyes darted to the houses on either side of them, rotting wood and grimy curtains tacked across the windows. Nothing moved except the wind in the leaves above him. He went on his way, and when he got to the line of trees, he looked back, as he always did, but by then Cypress Street was empty. The woods embraced him.  

Cypress Street was almost at the top of a ravine. It crested about ten feet higher up at a gentle incline, but then dropped off calamitously hundreds of feet below, if you didn’t know where to go, that was. Owen, by now, knew the place like a tourguide. He’d been retreating from the world here for about a decade by now. He knew intimately its slopes and hollows. A careless step would send someone tumbling down at breakneck speed to land in the river that flowed far below. It had almost happened to him a couple of times, but now he was like a mountain goat, picking his way expertly down a hidden path of rocks and sturdy, fallen trees. This was his own place, his kingdom. The trees kept the sun from him, sheltered him from the rain. Protected him from prying eyes. And it kept his secrets too. He knew firsthand the appeal of a life spent alone in a place like this, and he often fantasized about building a cabin out of the materials with plans from the internet, and a small generator. But as it was, he’d make do with what he had found only three years ago.  

Down and down he descended, so that the river’s gurgles were within earshot. The way back up was always a struggle, no matter how well he knew the way, but it was worth it. He stopped and looked around. The red rag was a little ways to the right. He picked his way across the centuries of rotting leaves and reached the tree. He knew exactly where he was, but a stranger would never see it. Everything blended together. He walked down about twenty feet more, and was always taken aback by the yawning blackness that greeted him when he turned around. His cave.  

This small corner of Missouri was only just made habitable by man, but the woods were still unclaimed. Geologists knew the area well as being home to a massive network of caves, but the locals didn’t know too much about them. The houses they slept in, the businesses they worked in, the churches they worshipped in – they could all disappear into one giant sinkhole if it was to suddenly implode around them. But it hadn’t happened before, and it wasn’t likely to happen in Owen’s lifetime. He made himself content with his discovery.  

The cave was about seven feet tall, and very roomy. It tapered off to a height of three feet at the back, about thirty feet into the depths, where a rockfall had blocked further inspection. When he stood by it, he could feel the cave breathing as air sucked and blew through the holes between the fallen rocks. He’d always wondered what was beyond them, but he was never scared. This place felt more like home to him than the cesspit he shared with his father on the surface.  

Over the last couple of years, Owen had lugged some things down here, mostly camping gear so that he would have a comfortable retreat when he needed one. He had stolen food, one can at a time from the grocery store, and was quite well stocked in Chef Boyardee pasta and Campbell’s soups. His little propane stove had plenty of full tanks. He could have ridden out the winter here, if need be. Nobody would have any idea where he was. He grabbed a bundle of sticks and took them to his fire pit about halfway into the cave and set about making a little fire. As the smoke curled up, it was devoured by the breathing of the cave, and pulled back into the depths, leaving the dancing flames to light up the cave. He bundled up his sleeping bag and sat down, looked out through the cave mouth at the trees across the ravine. It was the most peace he’d known in days.  

As he sat, he began to think of his father, who only days before had whipped him across the shoulder with the business end of his belt. Owen had made the coffee too hot that night, and his father, drunk as usual, had burnt his mouth taking a gulp. Off came the belt, as it had so many times in the past, and while a few of the blows missed, the biggest swing found its target square on his shoulder. It still hurt like a motherfucker. One of these days, he thought.  

One of these days.  

Owen stood. “Who – who’s there?” He puffed out his chest. It was the same voice that had spoken to him on Cypress Street. He called out again, but there was no answer. Someone had followed him to his secret place. He suddenly felt vulnerable. He snatched up the hunting knife from under the sleeping bag and brandished it at the end of a trembling arm. But nobody answered his call.  

He padded softly to the cave mouth and looked both ways, Nobody was to be seen, no branches were heard to snap. The woods were as silent as they always were. Owen inhaled deeply. His breath rattled in his chest. Still safe.  

But as he was putting away the knife, tucking it, sheathed, into the waist of his jeans, there was a sudden shriek that made him jump out of his skin. Not a human noise, but that of an animal. He suddenly remembered his snare, and his heart moved into second gear. He left the cave and took a hidden path that went all the way down to the river.  

It was dark down here. The only time it was bright was when the sun was directly overhead. At any other time, the ravine was permanent twilight during the day. It suited Owen well, as he had come to see himself as a creature of the darkness. The sounds of an animal in pain were up ahead, and it wasn’t long before he saw why. A small dog was caught in the snare he had made months ago. So long ago that he’d forgotten how and why he’d made it. It was biting at the fishing line the tripped branch had tightened around its leg. Owen approached. The dog saw him and tried to run, but was jerked back in agony by the snare. It whimpered and trembled. Owen picked up a stick and prodded it at the dog, hoping to keep it away long enough so that he could cut the fishing line and free it, but the dog just snapped at it, growling. After a few minutes of this, Owen grew frustrated. “Jesus Christ,” he said, “I’m trying to help ya.” He thrust the stick at the dog, but it surprised him, grabbed the stick in its mouth and tugged. Not enough to pull him off his feet, but enough to make him stumble. He fell and jammed his wrist under him painfully. “God DAMN it!” he hissed. The dog began to bark. “Shut the fuck up!” he yelled at it, but it would not shut up. Nervously, he looked up the ravine. What if someone was looking for it? The barking echoed loudly at the bottom of the ravine. “Shut up!” he hissed, but it only made the dog bark louder and faster. No matter what he did, he could not get the dog to shut up. There was a large rock by the river, a couple of feet away. Owen marched across and grabbed it. And threw it. He only meant to scare the dog, but his aim was bad. It thudded hard on the animal’s head and it crumpled, silent. Owen took the stick and prodded it, but it was dazed, its eyes glassy. He straightened and looked around him for signs of a searching owner, but there was nothing. “You should have listened,” he said, and prodded the dog some more. It whined softly. “You should have listened,” he said again. He pressed the stick into the dog’s ribs, curious. Then he took the stick and broke it over his knee. The end was sharp, like a stake.   

“You’re a bad dog,” Owen said. He pressed the point of the stick against the throat of the dog and pushed. The dog grunted. He wasn’t pushing very hard, really. Just enough to dimple the skin under the jaw. He pressed a little harder, overcome with a sudden sense of wonder. What power he had over this little animal. The power of life and death. He’d come to save it from the snare, but it had resisted. Stupid dog. Well, now what? “Look at you,” he said. “You’re not so tough now, huh?” He pressed harder, and the stick punctured the skin. No blood. He thought there would be blood, but there wasn’t. He fault vaguely disappointed by that. He pulled the stick out and a small bubbled of blood appeared at the entry point. It dribbled over the wound and the dog’s tongue lolled. It panted and whined. Owen knelt and pulled out his sheathed knife and turned it over in his hand. He could stop now. He could cut the snare and the dog would either recover, or it wouldn’t. It would either make its way back up the ravine from where it had surely tumbled, or it would die down here, alone, eaten by badgers. He put the tip of the knife to the dog’s throat and pressed its head into the ground with the heel of his other hand. He thrust the knife into the meat of the dog’s neck. It went in easily. It was a sharp knife, cost him over sixty bucks at WalMart when he thought he might need it for hunting. The dog bucked. The eye that looked at him became suddenly clear, widened in mortal terror. Owen stared into that eye as he sawed through the throat. A river of blood came pumping out into the floor of the woods. Some got on his fingers, and he wiped them off with some leaves.  

He stood and watched the dog die. It was all over and done with pretty quickly. He wondered why he didn’t feel much of anything. “Stupid dog,” he said.