Most things are not dangerous, anymore. The Appalachians were once the highest mountains in the world, the jagged seam between this continent and Africa. Now they are rounded, forested: after the rain, you hike through afternoon light all watery and green. In the evening, you pitch a tent on soft ground, hunt for wood in the near-dark, drink whisky beside a fire, beside a stream. Touch his shoulder before sleeping, find it again in the morning. The car is parked at the trailhead, and you reach it just before the next rainstorm. You take the passenger seat, wipe the fogged windshield, watch the wisps of clouds spiral up against the slopes; there’s coffee in the cupholders, seatbelts, indicators, the engine hum.
But there are other things. Tuesday morning at the train stop, he parks in the post office lot beside the rails, you check the time, you shoulder your bags. He gets out to say goodbye and says something else instead, just as you’re turning away. You keep going, you’ll be undone by all this otherwise, cross the tracks to the northbound side. The summer’s dissolving into thunderstorms. You’re uncertain your luck will hold.