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“Okay.” She nodded. “Why is it called that?”
“I don’t know.” Never occurred to me to find out.
She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, lips poised for further questioning, but something had already distracted her; a far-off noise, rasping and mechanical. It rose to a crescendo, dropped off, peaked again; a distant, eerie echo stalking through the trees. It faded to unmask a different sound, fainter still, not unlike that of the breeze in the branches and yet somehow flat and unnatural. Pushing herself up onto her elbows, listening intently, she asked, “What is that?”
I stood, took in the distant murmur. “It’s traffic,” I said.
Realization dawned across her face. She sat bolt upright, eyes darting around her from tree to tree and to the dark places in between. She surveyed the narrow strip of grass on which she sat; twenty yards wide and arrow-straight for an eighth of a mile, the forest crowding in on all sides to consume it. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” she gasped.
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