I paid for my coffee with the last of my cash and drove toward the ridge as the sun began to set.

The rain had stopped, leaving a thick, clinging fog over the hills.

I parked my Volvo a quarter-mile down the road, hiding it behind an overgrown thicket of wild blackberries.

I grabbed my flashlight and slipped through the gap in the drystone wall.

The woods were silent, save for the dripping of water

from the pine needles.

I kept the flashlight turned off, relying on the pale moonlight filtering through the fog.

I knew these woods by heart, every fallen oak and every dip in the limestone earth.

But as I neared the crest of the western slope, the familiar scent of damp pine was replaced by something sharp and chemical.

The smell of diesel fuel hung heavy in the cold, wet air.

I stopped, my heart hammering against my ribs.

A low, rhythmic grinding sound echoed through the trees from the ridge ahead.

I crouched behind a thick trunk of wild cherry and peered through the mist.