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recognized. I can say firsthand that living in constant fear is one of the most unproductive, life-draining states of mind there is. What I noticed now that I had uninterrupted time to think was that the rest of the country was living in fear too. The headlines were full of one horrifying piece of news after another. War, cutbacks, terrorism, states of alert, secret government meetings, citizens’ rights being violated—the list went on and on. How had we gone from a country of peace and prosperity to one of such deep-rooted anxiety and panic? Were these feelings warranted, or was our government bombarding us with so much horrible news that no one dared question its authority? How much of this fear was justified, and how much was being sold? When you spent as much time in nature as I did, all the
news and terror seemed manufactured, not real. The world I inhabited was amazing and bountiful. Was it possible for a handful of people to break through the clouds of fearful rhetoric to expose the beautiful and abundant? Sitting in this hole deep in the woods where the transcendentalist movement began, I felt like the national psyche had been hijacked by a wayward boogeyman.
    And for someone my age, the threats were greater. I would be eighteen soon, eligible for the draft if it was ever reinstated. I didn’t want to go to war—ever. Spend days and nights trying to kill other guys my age? No thanks. The longer I sat in the darkness, the more I realized how necessary it was to get deeply involved in what was going on in this country.
    On my second day, I was feeling punch-drunk and cold and almost didn’t hear the voice calling me from the top of the hole.
    â€œJosh?”
    â€œBeth? What are you doing here?”
    By the time she slid down into my hideout, her clothes were covered in leaves and snow.
    â€œHow long have you known about this place?” I asked.
    â€œI used to come here to hike after you died. 34 I found this hole one day and just knew you had made it.”
    â€œI think you should forget Brown and go into the private-eye business.”

    She looked up at me, her hair full of tiny bits of bark. “Do you want me to leave?”
    â€œNo, but you’re probably the only person I’d let interrupt a vision quest. I’m getting a lot of good thinking done.”
    â€œI just want you to know I’m committed to Simon.”
    I didn’t know what to say to such a non sequitur.
    She pulled her jacket over her head. “But I think we have some unfinished business, don’t you?”
    Okay, I thought. You’re definitely hallucinating. Two days in the cold with just water, trail mix, and gum, searching for the true meaning of life, and this is what you get. A mirage. Shake it off.
    But when she pressed her body against me, the reality of the situation struck like lightning.
    It took me about half a second to respond.
    I back-burnered my save-the-world questions and decided to make one of my own dreams come true.

Beth told me later that what we had done didn’t change anything, that we had important work to do, that she was serious about Simon … blah, blah, blah.
    But everything had changed.
    I don’t want you to think I reverted to some dopey guy following Beth around like a puppy. I was cool, gave her a boost up out of the hole after the rain stopped, waved goodbye with a smile.
    You know when you finally do something you’ve been obsessed with for years, and somehow afterward it feels anticlimactic, not worthy of all the hype?
    This wasn’t one of those times.
    The term “slow-motion” doesn’t begin to describe the care I took in playing back my afternoon with Beth. Her kissing my chest, my muddy hands pulling her toward me, the sky opening up and pouring down on us afterward.
    It was messy.
    It was beautiful.
    It ruined my vision quest.
    I went home and ate a three-egg omelet with half a jar of salsa, then took the longest,