"You trek this way before, Norm?"

"Once. Just once."

Immersed in the vast, wooded expanse of the mountainside, Max trudged behind Norman’s lead. He gazed at the shifting of Norman’s scarlet backpack with each step he made. Streaks of dirt stained its frayed, dangling straps; the fabric gave off the scent of marshmallows, burnt branches, and black coffee. As he did with the backpack, Max eyed the handle of Norman’s pistol in its leather, brown holster.

“Who knows what we might run into," Norman warned when they began.

Looking down at his weaponless, empty hands, the tan shade of Max’s skin stood
out from the pale blue of his denim jacket sleeves. Verdant leaves swayed overhead like prom couples dancing to a slow song. The leather boots of both men squeaked as they stepped upon the muddy earth hidden by the ankle-deep grass. Tree trunks still glistened from rainfall the previous night. Though cloudy and without sun, the grim skies no longer poured. However the lingering, grey canvas above hinted towards the rain’s return.

“Just once?”

“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

No one came out this far from town. Not just for a hike. A day after wet weather meant chances of seeing someone further diminished. Combine that with driving two hours from the city and walking one more from a dirt road—the pair seeing another living soul seemed impossible.

"You know, I had my doubts," Max admitted, "But I think I’m starting to enjoy this.

"What!? An urban pretty boy not liking the wilderness at first? How could that be?"

"Shut up," he jabbed back.

With a loud brief laugh, Norman pulled out a dented, navy flask from his vest and pressed it to his lips. Max could smell the pungent sting of whiskey even from a few feet away.

"Isn’t that a different flask from when we started?"

"Yep!" Norman declared, pride saturating the one syllable. "I finished my Hennessey, and now I’m on Jameson."

"I can smell it from back here."

"Well I can smell your cologne from up here. Even in the wilderness there’s no going without it, is there?"

“It’s my favorite,” Max contended, “I put it on every morning.”

“Clearly. You want a swig?"

“Unless you have a third flask filled with cabernet—no.”

About a decade ago, somewhere during middle and high school, cans of Red Bull under Norman’s bed became Budweiser. Just like Max’s sneakers and tees became loafers and cardigans.

Back then with his inclinations toward alcohol, Norman hosted parties when his parents would leave town. He’d invite any pretty girl whom he caught staring long enough at him in class. After acquiring a fake ID, he’d walk into bars and sip a Long Island Iced Tea in one go. Just to see the jaws of the clientele drop.

The more Max reminisced in these memories, the more he’d envy Norm: his gall, his nerve, whatever you’d call it. But despite how much Norm drank, he never skipped class. His grades never strayed below A’s and high B’s. He never showed any troubling behavior—at least not back then.

"I gotta say I’m impressed," Norman admitted. "Away from the city, not on your
phone: you’re a totally different Max today! I’m surprised you’re even wearing boots. Even if they are Doc Martens—and white."

"They’re the only boots I had. Thought they’d be better compared to my other shoes. I really want yours right now," Max expressed, motioning toward Norm’s brown hiking boots.

“You always want what’s mine, don’t you?”

Smirking, Max didn’t respond. After a pause and without turning his head back, Norman began again:

“You’re here ‘cause of Brandy, aren’t you?"

"What!? No!"

"You’re here because you felt sorry for me,” Norman sighed, “About how she up and vanished. When I brought up the idea of coming out here to get away from things, you agreed to the idea just ‘cause you felt obligated, didn’t you?"

Relieved Norman wasn’t turning around to see him red-faced, Max assured him:

"No, I swear! I’ve wanted to get into the outdoors for a while! I just haven’t been
willing to make the push. I’m actually happy you made the offer!"

After a pause, Norman responded.

"Alright. I believe you, Max. Sorry for accusing you.”

"No worries!"

With the now-awkward silence, Max weighed the option of changing subjects, but he feared such a move would appear evasive and insincere. That Norman would see right through him.

"You know," Max began, "I wouldn’t get so down if I were you. She could still turn up. She’s probably still alive."

"Doubt it," Norman retorted without a beat. "Nothing’s missing from the house. Her car’s still in the garage. No note left—nothing. And the cops don’t even have any leads. Someone disappears for a month? If she’s ever found, she probably won’t be kicking."

A frown found its way onto Max’s face. Although glad Norman believed his lie about genuinely wanting to come, he couldn’t help but be disappointed that Norman had already given up hope.

"Besides," Norman added, "If she were still alive, I bet she ran off with another guy. I’d been suspicious before she left."

Max’s eyes widened.

Could Norman have known?
 
***
 
A week before she disappeared, Brandy came knocking on Max’s doorstep. Once Max cracked the door open, he flung it wide open after seeing her: mascara streaks steamed down her cheekbones. But no amount of mascara could explain the color and swelling around one of her eyes.

The door hit the adjacent wall with a loud thump.

“Oh my God, what happened?” Max blurted out, moving out of the doorframe. Brandy trotted in, dropping herself on his black, leather love seat. "Nor—Norm came home from the bar, stumbling in and started yelling at me—telling me how bad of a wife I am, how he doesn’t feel loved. Then he did this to me, got back in his car, and drove back to the bars."

With a messy, blonde bun perched on her head, she pulled the loose strands from the front of her face and tucked them behind her ear. Her mascara began to collect under her chin, and dropped onto her white, wrinkled blouse. A false eyelash from her bruised eye fell to the hardwood.

Max pulled her in close and she sobbed against his chest. Between sobs, she asked,

"Can you imagine—being married to someone—who doesn’t love you?"
He rubbed her back with one hand while resting his other on her shoulder.

"I don’t understand how my best friend could do that, especially to you," Max uttered. “You should go to the police.”

“No! I can’t. But I’ll handle it: I promise. And you can’t say anything to him. He’ll know I told you.”

With a long pause, “Okay,” slipped out of Max’s lips.

With a sniff, Brandy confides, "I just wish I had someone who still cared about me.”

After lifting her face to wipe her cheeks with the back of her hand, she pressed her face to his chest again.

"I love your cologne, Max."

"Thank yo—”

"Remember in high school," she interrupted, "before Norm asked me to date him? Remember during each passing time between classes, I’d be leaning on your locker waiting for you?"

"Of course I do.”

“Do you remember how I’d hug you when I saw you each morning and at the end of each day? How I laughed and threw my head back every time you said something funny?"

"I do. I miss those days."

With a pause, she added, "It’s memories like those that tell me I made the wrong choice with Norm."

Unwilling to displease her, he didn’t stop her when she pressed her lips to his. He didn’t stop her when she unbuttoned his shirt.
 
***
 
Still trudging behind Norman’s lead, Max smiled: there’s no way Norman could have known about him and Brandy.

"Norm, let’s say she did leave you. Do you have any idea why she might have done that? Was there anything she was upset about?"

After hesitating, Norman gave his response:

"No. Nothing at all."

After a while of walking amidst silence, the pair paused as they approached a cliff. Beyond it, they could see the dense forest stretching far, painting the landscape below them with distant, rustling green. The
view seemed undercut by the dark, almost malevolent skies

“Wow,” Max let out.

“Let’s keep going! There’s a nice clearing nearby!”

Turning toward his voice, Max saw Norm already a few yards away. The view must have distracted him from the sound of receding footsteps. As Max entered the clearing, Norman offered him a collapsible shovel straight from his backpack.

"Dig," Norman ordered, pointing in front of his feet to the middle of the clearing. "Why?"

"We need a latrine," he responded, looking away.

Max began digging. The work became easier than he thought; the earth seemed looser than he’d expected.

A foot deep, a beige piece of burlap cloth poked out of the dirt. Upon further digging, Max uncovered a small bag about the size of a baby. Maybe a Thanksgiving turkey.

Norman lifted up the bag and with it a putrid, rotting odor. He untied the knot with ease, and shook out the body of a Dalmatian pup, landing beside its grave. Max’s eyes narrowed; his forehead wrinkled.

"Keep digging," Norman directed. His voice stern, he made no eye contact.

"Why?"

"Just. Keep. Digging." Norman growled as he put his hand on his pistol.

Max’s eyes narrowed. His lips parted, but said nothing. Something between a sigh and a scoff came out. With a grimace, he plunged the shovel back into the hole.

With another foot, the odor strengthened. Giving one good thrust, Max struck a black garbage bag. Puncturing it, he pulled up his shovel, and with that motion the shovel pulled out a strand of long, blonde hair from the bag.

Gagging, overcome with the flood of air that rushed out from puncturing the bag, Max stumbled back. Turning toward Norman, Max’s face met with the barrel of the pistol inches away.

"I could smell your pretty boy cologne all over her when I came back home again that night."

Max’s eyes widened.

"The first time you came up here..."

"One month ago. "

Norman took a step forward, pressing the gun against Max’s forehead. At the same time, Max took a step back only for his body to press against a tree trunk the edge of the clearing. He felt the rainwater on the bark begin to seep into his denim.

"You see," Norman began, "If any dogs led the cops here, they would have found the Dalmatian first. They’d label it false positive and wouldn’t dig any deeper. She’d never be found, and I’d get away with it."

"N—Norm,” Max quivered, “Don’t. Even if just for your own sake. I can’t disappear, too. If I do, they’ll know it was you.”

"You don’t think I’ve thought that far ahead?" Norman scoffed, "There’s a reason I have two bullets in here.” His wrist turned back and forth, making the pistol dance.

After a deep breath, Max started to respond: "You—"

"Do not try to change my mind. I’ve gone this far: I can’t go back,” Norman snarled as his pale, chapped lips stretched into an unwavering scowl.

"Norm, what I did was shitty. Really shitty. And wrong. I can admit that. But you di—"

"She cheated on me! With my best friend! Someone you love doesn’t do that. She’d always pull this stupid line whenever we’d fight: ‘Do you know what it’s like to be married to someone who doesn’t love you?’ Well it goes both ways.”

Max’s lips quivered opened and closed, open and closed, open and closed without sound. Forcing the words out, he finally uttered, “You don’t think beating her made that a bit hard for her to do?”

Norman’s scowl eased.

"I..."

Norman couldn’t continue with his response. Tears, the tiniest tears, began to swell up in his bloodshot eyes. The pistol began to shake in his hand.

“You know what? Go ahead: shoot me,” Max implored. “Because if it means that you die too, then I can make peace with that. If it means you won’t keep going around killing people to distract yourself from just how shitty of a person you are, I’m happy with that. I don’t deserve it, but it’s the least you do.”

As if possessed, the shakes of Norman’s hand evolved into convulsions. With a slight squeeze, a violent bang erupted from the pistol. The sound reverberated through the trees, shattering the silence of the wilderness. Watching the shaking stop, sensing no pain, Max pats around his face and neck. His hands, feeling around for blood and exposed flesh, made contact with skin. Skin and nothing else. Turning around, Max saw what looked like a scarlet eye: the color of an exposed layer of the tree’s trunk encircling a dark hole.

Turning back, he saw a single tear drag down Norman’s face.

“What a lovely sermon,” Norman utters, devoid of affect in his face or voice.

Before Max can react, Norman shoves the barrel between his own lips. Before Max can even scream, Norman pulls the trigger.

---