I had a memory, but I wasnt sure if it was real, or necessarily mine, of chopping someone up out behind the old cabin in the pines, uphill from town. There was a space between the cabin and the treeline, where the guy had been killed. Where I had killed him? Why? Later I was back up there, cutting some kind of meat into smaller pieces and scattering it in the trees, hoping some animal would deal with it. Jump ahead -- an investigation is underway. At least some people suspect me. No one has come out and accused me. Cops have been around. Im talking to my dad -- he doesnt know anything about my fears. Were talking about the cabin, when I was up there, stuff like that. I try to make small talk about it -- how nice it is, how cool that old lamp is -- to make it sound like I have no reason to hide that I was up there in December -- was it December? I realize December was when the guy was killed; wish I hadnt said that. The cops are handing out flyers to try to get leads. Someone -- my brother? -- comes in, says, Look what someone put on our windshield! Its one of the flyers. Someone is toying with me. Slow terror is dawning. I try to think: even if I get away, even if I left -- where could I go? -- Id be living in fear the rest of my life. Id constantly be looking over my shoulder. I could never rest. I could never trust anyone. This is unthinkable. But if I go to prison -- I cant go to prison! Id never make it in there. Surely they wouldnt put someone like me in prison! There has to be some kind of clause, some kind of exception. I realize this is ridiculous. But finally, the light comes. I didnt do it! Theyre going to do their investigation, and its going to come out okay, because I didnt do it. I wake up, realize its true, its okay, I didnt do it; I would never do that. Its okay.