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the remainder of the nightclub money.
    Only once did Alan think he saw his dead father, and it was a cold, rainy late afternoon. He’d tethered his bike to a No Parking sign and rushed into an office building to deliver a package. On his way out, an eerie calm seemed to overtake him. Strangely, there wasn’t any traffic along the street, though he could see the flaring of taillights at the nearest intersection through the drizzle. Tugging the hood of his nylon jacket over his head, he began running the combination to his bike lock, anxious to get home and out of the rain.
    But then something had caused him to look up. Across the street and hidden within the shadows of a narrow alley that cut between two buildings, a pale visage emerged from the gloom. At first, Alan thought it was a homeless man, but then he recognized the face, floating there in the darkness of the alley like a moon hanging in space, and a cold dreadcoursed through his veins. He hurriedly undid the bike lock and jumped onto the seat, his legs already pedaling in the air before they had a chance to settle onto the pedals themselves. Once he hopped down the curb and gained speed, he risked a glance over his shoulder. The pale face was gone, having retreated into the shadows. Or perhaps, he would think later that night, it had never existed in the first place.
    Happy trails,
he thought now, smoking the cigarette down to the filter. Contrary to what his doctor had told him, smoking actually made his ulcer feel better. Fuck doctors. Happy trails, indeed.
    He stepped off the porch and cut through the yard on his way around to the back of the house. Momentarily, the scent of his father’s cologne grew stronger. The sky was a country sky, afire with an abundance of stars. The moon was fat and full, the color of bone. Lighting a second cigarette, Alan crossed the yard while trailing the palms of his hands over the high grass. It was warm enough for fireflies, and this night they were out in multitude, filling the sky with their peculiar brand of visual Morse code.
    Alan’s gaze fell upon the dark hollow in the curtain of trees. It looked like the mouth of a cave in the side of a mountain. He exhaled a cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth and tromped down the tall grass on his way over to the stand of trees. Stupidly, it caused him to think of the alley between the two buildings and the pale moon face that had floated there, watching him from across a Manhattan street.
    Quit it.
    A cool, summery breeze cascaded down into the yard, rustling his hair and causing gooseflesh to spring up on hisbare chest. The breeze passed through the branches of the pines, too, making them undulate. As if waving him closer, beckoning him. A ghostly moan rose out of the woods: the wind funneling through hollow trees.
    He passed through the opening between the trees and stepped onto the path.
    Darkness rushed in to greet him. Just a few paces down the path, he paused and glanced up. Despite the brilliance of the moon and the clear sky, the overlapping branches above his head were plentiful enough to keep much of the moonlight off the path and out of the woods. Yet as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he made out something glowing dimly in the shadows of the woods just a few yards ahead of him on the path. He walked toward it, keeping his knees bent and one hand in front of his eyes to swipe away errant tree branches. As he drew closer he realized it was the smooth white stone he had seen earlier that day, the one with the strange upside-down triangle carved into it. And even though the moonlight was limited here in the woods, the stone glowed faintly, as if radioactive.
    Alan crouched before the stone and waved one hand in front of it. His fingers left psychedelic trails in their wake. Looking up, he saw more white stones staggered at intervals along the path, which appeared to wind deeper and deeper into the woods.
    Happy trails,
he thought again and continued