Where It Ends

| 4 | Tired Old Song

I close my truck door and take a look around.

What's left of the ranch is more than just depressing. It's goddamn eerie. What was once tidy and well-maintained is now rundown and overgrown. The moonlight may be bright enough to guide my steps, but the fast-moving clouds are bringing the shadows to life. And I don't trust them. I see "ghosts," in fact. The Quinn of the past is not the only one that makes me uneasy. She's not even the most worrisome, and that's saying something.

Taryn didn't leave a light on for herself and uses her cellphone flashlight to lead the way. Fumbling with my own phone, trying to keep up and not trip or drop the damn thing, we skip the front steps and circle to the back of the house instead.

They used to have a nice deck and patio overlooking a sizable garden and greenhouse. Weather, weeds, and time really did a good number on the area, though. The greenhouse has cracked, shattered, or missing panels. The steps leading to the back of the house groan beneath my weight. The wood of the deck continues to crackle with every step. The stability is questionable, and the planks are covered in a layer of grit.

With a little persistence, Taryn jimmies the sliding patio door open, and I follow her over the threshold.

"What they don't know won't hurt them," she informs me.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised that we're breaking and entering. At least it wasn't by force. Well, not really. She just knows something that the bank doesn't.

She closes us in and relocks the door to the best of her ability. A few steps later, she has a battery-operated work-light turned on. "The power's out," she informs me, leading me from the kitchen. "Luckily, there's a bunch of junk still in the storm cellar. Some of it was actually useful."

The house is a little dusty and cluttered with tools and construction waste. I find it sad that it's so empty, but it's not beyond hope. With a few people and a few days of labor, it would likely be habitable again. I wish the same could be said about the land, but, at first glance in the dark, it's much further gone. And I would know. It used to be one of my jobs to keep it contained.

Taryn sets the work-light on the floor in the dining room and veers into the parlor. I stay with the light, and through the doorway, I can make out a sleeping bag and an open suitcase. There are a few pairs of shoes on the floor nearby, all of them sensible.

When she leans over to take her boots off, I do an abrupt "about face." It's pretty much her bedroom and I pace the floor in the opposite direction, to give her a moment of privacy.

It's the first time I notice the guitar leaning against the wall. I bring it to the open stepladder below the dismantled light fixture and sit down. I take a moment to inspect it. There's the scratch I caused and the dent I didn't. Without a doubt, it's the guitar Quinn and I both learned on.

I don't know why, but it's a pleasant surprise. Maybe it's the whiskey still in my system. Even though it's been a while, it feels so natural in my hands.

When I start strumming, I glance into the parlor. I suppose I'm seeking Taryn's reaction. This whole ordeal started with a guitar pick. Nothing has been explained yet, but I finally feel like we're getting somewhere.

Taryn is standing in the far corner, just within my range of sight. She managed to get a pair of flannel shorts on without me noticing, but I catch a glimpse of the back of her bra and the curve of her waist, just as she's throwing a loose T-shirt over her head.

I shouldn't have done that, and I didn't mean to. I didn't think she'd be changin' changin'. I wasn't thinking in general, and I suppose that suits me in times like these.