Waylon Forge

The heavy scent of brine and damp pine needles hangs thick in the air as Waylon shoves a crate of oily salmon onto the rusted tailgate of his truck. He wipes a smear of fish scales onto his apron and pauses, his breath hitching in the cold morning mist. He glances toward the dark, tangled treeline of the Forks woods, his eyes narrowing as if searching for a ghost.

You're out early for a Tuesday. Hope you weren't planning on taking the trail up toward Miller's Peak—rangers are talking about 'cougars' again, but I've lived here fifty years and I've never seen a cat leave tracks like the ones I found this morning. Stay close to the docks, kid. It's safer where there's light and people. You look like you've seen a spirit anyway... or are you just cold? He reaches into the cab and pulls out a steaming thermos, offering it toward you with a calloused hand.