"Are you from Oregon or just visiting?” I hate it when people talk to me on airplanes. The conversation is never interesting because small talk is work. And I’m on vacation. I don’t want to work. I can feel her staring at me and I shift away in unease.

"Just visiting a friend,” I say without looking up from my book. A few moments pass.

"I've read that. It’s quite good.” I still feel her looking at me, eager to make a friend on a cramped six-hour flight. A baby wails in the background. My eyes roll under my lids then I offer a friendly smile and go for my noise-cancelling headphones.

An hour later, I’m awoken by a violent, shaking plane. Oxygen masks fall from above. A baby is screaming. The seatbelt sign dings on and my seat mate scrambles to buckle up. A plane crash would be a cool way to die. Falling from the sky with hundreds of strangers, open luggage tossing undies and books around the cabin, people screaming, random shoes and plane parts and bodies scattered among the trees below. After a moment we even out and everyone is relieved. I go on daydreaming about death when I feel a tap. It’s her. She’s holding a cocktail, urging me to take it. My need for a drink outweighs my desire for solitude, so I pull off my headphones.

"Gin." She says, rattling the ice. “You seem like a gin kind of girl.”

"I am,” I say, cautious of the drink I take from a stranger. The number one no-no of being a woman. But would another woman roofie me 35,000 feet in the air? Then again, nothing surprises me. I figure it’s worth the risk. “How’d you guess?”

"I was watching you at the airport bar.” It falls out of her mouth so nonchalant, so matter of fact. I watch people.

"What?" I snap. My face contorts from annoyed to freaked out.

"No! I-I mean…not watching you watching you. O-oh, my goodness, I must sound ridiculous. I was sitting next to you. I heard you order a gin martini.” Her panicked face was begging me to move past it. I instantly regret entering into a nonverbal agreement of conversing with her by taking the drink. About to blow her off, Maeve pops into my head. When we met a decade ago, I needed a place to live. Without knowing me, she offered to find an apartment together, and in the meantime, found me a place to stay with a friend of hers. And in the years since, I’ve witnessed her kindness in all shapes and sizes, for all kinds of people. Everyone gets the benefit of her doubt. What would she do in this situation?

"Right." I take a deep breath. “Thank you.” A deep sigh of relief and we’re back to the awkward pleasantries. Four hours later, six gin and tonics, and a bucket of peanuts later, we touch down in Portland and emerge from the plane friends. Maybe even more than that. Her name is Audra and we’re having dinner before I fly home. If only she lived in New York. Eight years is a long time to be single.

Seeing Maeve is everything I need. Our embrace at the airport lingers and tightens aswe take each other in. Her black and grey curls smell of peony and cedar wood. Her soft, mocha cheek grazes mine. I feel at home. We lived together for years until she moved back here last September. It’s been tough losing one of my only friends, my closest friend.

We take the long way to her place. Windy back roads lined with Firs, False Cedars, Redwoods, Oregon Ash, Chokecherries, Black Hawthorns, and Weeping Willows. Every inch of rich greenery is enchanted. Bright green moss-covered stones and branches, deep emerald ivy climbing wet, umber trunks a hundred feet high. Brilliant red, orange, and yellow leaves speckle the autumnal forest shift. White berries, red ones, blue. Someone put a vivid filter over Oregon.

A few hours later we arrive at her place with Thai take-out and a plan to relax before our big hike tomorrow. She parks her 95’ champagne Mercedes convertible in a free spot next to a silver BMW with blackout tint. “Dave is going to besooo excited to see you!” Her phone rings as she turns off the engine. Gasoline lingers in the air, mixing with the spicy aroma of the green curry on my lap. “Hang on, it’s Mari.” Maeve talks to her sister while I await playing fetch with Dave after a bowl of delicious food he will beg for. He pushes back onto his hind legs, sitting up like a meercat, front paws dangling. It’s the cutest thing when he adds the tips of his tongue through his two front snaggle teeth.“WHAT?” Maeve shouts into the phone, snapping me out of my thoughts and back into the car. “I can be there in four hours.”

"What happened?” I pry. Maeve hangs up and her tough, supportive exterior begins to melt and in a split second she’s sobbing. “Maeve…” My hand now on her back, my brow furrowed. Tears, snot, rapid and shallow breaths.

It wasn’t even Mari on the phone. It was a doctor. Mari was assaulted by a man in the parking lot of her apartment in Seattle. Ten minutes after calming down Maeve was on the road, me on the sidewalk with her house keys, my bag, and too much Thai food for one.

In the morning, I have curry for breakfast before taking Dave on a long walk through Forest Park. It’s not the hike I planned, but Dave needs pup-friendly. A third of the way in, I stop to take a photo of the biggest slug I have everseen but as I snap, someone bumps into me and my phone goes flying into the dirt and fallen leaves.

"Oh my, oh, I’m so sorry…are you okay?” The man is tall, white, fit. A Patagonia store threw up on him, not a stitch out of place, not an ounce of wear. He stepped off the catalog and onto this trail. We both go for my phone and he beats me to it. Sweet Dave growls.

"Yeah, no, I-I’m fine. No worries.” I force a smile. He doesn’t hand over my phone.

"Do I know you?” Dave still snarling at my heels. Keys are between my fingers inside my hoodie pocket as I think of how to get away. Lie.

"Maybe...do you live around here?” My voice high, innocent, silently begging for safety.

 "Maybe. Do you?” He gestures with my phone, holding it like it’s his.

 I hesitate. Don’t let on you’re thousands of miles from home. “Not too far. Hillsboro.”

"Me too!” Convenient. He looks at me with a slant before asking for my passcode to program in his number. Out goes my right hand, off the keys, for my phone. I feel naked.

"I'll do it,” I say with a sweet, flirty smile.

"Are you kidding? And risk getting fake numbered?” What a horrible way to die at the hands of a man who probably thinks this is romantic, something to tell the kids one day. After he saves it, he calls himself. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it Thena?” He offers my phone back to me like a grand gesture of kindness.

Did I give him my name? The chill in my spine carries my Adidas faster and faster back to my rental car. Glancing over my shoulder, I trip. I don’t think he’s following me but I move faster anyway. As I get to the lot, I notice a silver BMW parked next to me. Black out tint. It wasn’t there when I parked. Dave jumps into his pup seat and I speed out of there.

Spooked, I only leave the house the next day to walk Dave around the neighborhood. I have my date with Audra later, but I can’t shake this sinister feeling, not after Mari, not after Patagonia Arlo. If Arlo is his real name. I google the number he added but no hits. All the Arlos on social media are Hispanic.

Dave and I head home from our fifth walk of the day when I see Arlo in a fresh batch of Patagonia puke out front. “Oh my god! Thena!” He waves me over. My heart is racing, flight is activated, but I smile anyway. “Your dog is lucky to go out so many times a day.”

"Excuse me?” The quiver in my voice gives away my vulnerability.

 "You're in 4B, right? Noticed you in and out all day.” His observation chills me to the bone. Dave starts showing his snaggle tooth, only this isn’t cute.

"I got to get going. Plans.” Not a lie, but I would have. I smile and try to pass him.

"Bullshit." Deadpan with a hint of anger on his tongue, his arm out to stop me. It catches me so off guard I choke on air. Then he laughs. A boisterous, over-the-top laugh. Dave starts barking. “Calm down buddy,” Arlo bends to pet him but gets nipped, red dripples onto his perfect white fleece. The hint of anger now full-fledged, he screams at me to control my dog while storming off. I run to the apartment, 4B, and lock up like Fort Knox.

It's dark now and I’m running late for my date because I can’t stop looking through the curtains to make sure he’s not out there waiting. A car creeps past the wooden decks and parked cars, stopping in front of my window. Its silver with black out tint. I back away from the window and grab my phone to text Maeve. “Hey gurl your neighbor Arlo…he is giving me the creeps and dangerous white guy energy. Dave up and bit him today.” No text bubbles. She’s got enough to deal with. A tinge of guilt pains my stomach. I hope Mari is okay. I hope my friend is okay. The car is gone when I look up.

At dinner, Audra is charming and funny and everything I want. But she lives here and I there. I’m a magnet for this predicament. I wish that were the only thing distracting me. My thoughts wander into the forest of my mind, fading in as she says something so out of the blue, I’m left speechless for the second time today. “…because I love you! What if I move to New York? My friend Carrie has a place in Brooklyn…” Alarm bells go off in my head and I can’t believe what a nightmare this trip has been. We’ve known each other three days and she loves me? Is willing to uproot her life for me? The rest of her words blur into the restaurant’s dull roar around us. I’m on my feet so fast my chair scratches the floor, hitting the person behind me. People are staring, food on fork. I grab my things and without a word I flee the scene.

I tell the cabbie to take the long way back, ignoring Audra’s twenty-three texts on the way. I wish I had driven there instead of giving her my friend’s address. Back at Maeve’s I climb out of the cab and notice the silver BMW next to my rental. Scanning the surroundings, I walk over to take a photo of the license plate. Snap. Ding! It’s Maeve texting me back. “lol huh? Arlo isn’t white. Mexican like us and Dave LOVES him. Our moms make and sell tamales by the food trucks on Saturdays. Also, I’m going to be here a little longer than I thought. Mari is…it’s bad. You can leave the keys in the lockbox for the dog walker. Code is 3582. I hate that our trip was ruined.” Before I can respond, everything goes dark.

I wake to the sound of muffled struggle. My head is pounding, my toes and fingers are tied, taut, tingling. Opening my mouth is impossible. Duct tape. My fear consumes me and I feel crazed. Like an animal in the wild. Managing to roll over, I see where the sound is coming from. A brown man sits in the far corner of the room.The details of his face are fuzzy except the silver block covering his mouth. I rest my eyes, combing my mind but the last thing I remember is the trunk of the BMW.

With no memory, I focus on the room I’m in and I notice the man is crying. He has beautiful, soft brown eyes, like mine. Silky, mocha skin, like Maeve. Unruly curls of dark brown atop a perfectly faded side. Looking around this room, at him, the disorder seems out of place. He starts gesturing, turning as best he can to show me his hands, then his face then looks at my hands. I turn over and he grips the tape with his teeth. Rip! “Now you,” he says quick and quiet like a cat slinking across the room.

His name is Arlo – the real Arlo. Last week, a man in expensive fleece knocked on his door, said he was the new complex manager. He was inside for a moment before taking him hostage, breaking his leg for assurances. It looks infected and Arlo seems to have accepted his fate. But I haven’t. Unbound, I rummage through the closet for a weapon. A bowling ball ought to do the trick. We wait in silence, my heart drumming, my head splitting. Then I hear it. A key turns the lock to the front door.

I hear his voice and know it’s him. He’s not alone. I press my ear against the door but the other voice has gone quiet. Do concussions affect hearing? I’m pretty sure I have one. Footsteps. He’s coming. I brace myself…

I miss his face and hit his chest. Surprise! But my smirk is too cocky. He’s only in shock for a few seconds. I’m barely in the next room long enough to see Audra, bound and taped, limp on the floor. Who is this guy…but before I can finish my thought, he tackles me.

The beating I take is significant, but so is his. As I lay here on top of my broken arm, I wait for the feel of my skull crushing into red splatter when he falls and the ball rolls near me. Once more, I channel my rage into rolling my body over. Screaming through the dripping of blood, tears, life. Arlo is holding Patagonia down by the ankles. He struggles to regain balance thanks to myself-defense classes. And Arlo for dragging himself out here. Ire and sadness and hatred and fire bring me to my knees. I scoop the ball into my good arm, the other hanging off me like a rag doll. Coming to my feet, I steady over his head and release. 

My new trauma therapist sits in front of me, her eyes like kind, golden sand. Light features on dark skin make her fierce protection of survivors seem more intense. I like her. “Are you still dreaming about Jim,” she asks. Jim was Patagonia’s real name. He’d been terrorizing people, mainly women, all up and down the Pacific Northwest.

         “Mmhmm.” My bottom lip between my incisors. The pain keeps me from telling the whole truth.

         “And how is your friend?” My eyes fixate on her in defiant silence. My friend is devastated. Her sister is broken and there is nothing anyone can do. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”

         “It's not…” I hesitate.

         “It’s not what,” she probes. My mind replays the final moments of Jim’s life. I break eye contact. “You’re a survivor. Your friends are survivors. You can be glad to be alive and feel ashamed of how you had to survive at the same time. Knowing…” she carries on while I wonder if Arlo got to keep his leg. Maeve’s going to call when there’s an update. Then I’ll call Audra. I still can’t believe she was just telling me a story when I so dramatically ran away. I was embarrassed until we bonded over painkillers and nearly dying. A smile creeps across my face. “It looks like that resonates with you.” A sharp inhale. I nod not wanting to admit I wasn’t listening. “I meant every word. I believe you can heal from this trauma, Thena.” I smile as I think about the thing that unlocked in my soul that night. Something evil. I’m not traumatized. I’m just waking from the darkness. I like his blood on my teeth a little too much.