Walking Away

Darcy

The campground lay under an unsettling stillness as twilight fell. Hours earlier, it had pulsed with laughter and dance-offs to a retro playlist blasting from a Bluetooth speaker. Now, an eerie calm hovered over the pond, the sun sinking behind the ragged mountains.

An owl’s cry broke the quiet—lonely, hollow, a warning drifting through the trees. Even the cicadas had gone silent, their absence pressing in around her. Even the ripples on the water seemed uneasy, shivering in the fading light.

She curled into the Adirondack chair, a chill threading through the dusk. Almost without thinking, her fingers brushed the Glock .380 tucked in her belt bag.

Traveling alone had sounded adventurous when she’d mapped her route, but her best friend’s voice still echoed: Never ignore your instincts, Darcy. If something feels wrong, it probably is.

A deep voice cut through the quiet. “Beautiful here, huh?”

She jumped, her foot catching on the uneven ground. Whoever he was, he’d come too close without a sound. “Yes, it is,” she managed.

“I’m sorry I startled you.” His tone was casual, but his eyes lingered too long. “Didn’t mean to interrupt—you looked deep in thought.”

“I was,” she said, steadying her voice.

“Joe Hastings.” He extended a massive, callused hand.

“Darcy.” Her hand felt small inside his.

“Just Darcy?” His gaze probed.

She smiled thinly. “Yes. Just Darcy.”

At least six-two and broad-shouldered, Joe wore flannel and jeans that didn’t match the campground’s cheerful vibe. Cigarette smoke clung to him, though he wasn’t holding one.

“Are you staying here?” she asked, glancing past him. Across the pond, an old pickup sat with rust eating its fenders, travel stickers plastered across the tailgate, its dome light glowing faintly—as if the door hadn’t latched.

He nodded toward his camper. “How about you?”

“Yes,” she said lightly. “But I’m leaving in the morning.”

“Shame.” His gaze drifted over her and lingered too long. He didn’t move. “Where to next?”

Darcy tightened her grip on her bag strap. “Oh, just bouncing around. Haven’t decided yet.” The lie slid easily. She tilted her chin toward the trees. “Looks like rain. Better button things up before it hits.”

Joe squinted, then gave a slow nod that didn’t feel like agreement.

Darcy hurried to her Airstream Bambi at Camp Spot 3—a pull-through site chosen for a quick exit. One last glance toward the pond: Joe was gone. Yet she still felt him. Watching.

She yanked the blackout shades down. The night vanished. The click of the locks wrapped the Airstream around her like a cocoon—neat, bright, hers alone. Yet the thin aluminum walls felt fragile; one hard shove and they’d give. This was her first week on the road, her first time relying entirely on herself.

She’d already seen every kind of traveler—families around fires, women solo, friends laughing into the dark. But Joe Hastings cast a different kind of shadow.

She busied herself with small routines: clothes folded, makeup tucked away, toiletries stowed. The Glock rested on the ledge beside the bed.

When she stepped out to fold the table and crank in the awning, she paused at the threshold, scanning left, then right. The night pressed close. She forced herself outside anyway.

A sharp snap.

She went still. “Joe!” she blurted. “You scared the life out of me.”

He lifted his hands in mock surrender, a half-smile on his lips. “Sorry. Wanted to see if you wanted a steak.”

“No, thanks.” Her voice came out tighter than she liked.

“Okay then. Have a good evening.” He lingered under the awning light before turning away. “If you need me tonight,” he said, “just yell real loud.”

Darcy forced a polite smile, though her thoughts snapped, Yeah, Joe. I need you to leave me alone!

Back inside, she checked the locks twice.

Later, as she tried to sleep, the wind brushed the awning—soft, almost rhythmic. She told herself it was nothing.

Then a shadow moved across the window shade.

She froze, every nerve straining.

A faint sound followed: the door handle. Testing.

Darcy went still, air trapped in her lungs. The handle jiggled once. Twice.

Her hand slid toward the Glock. She’d practiced for this—hours at the range, learning to steady her aim, to breathe, to be ready. But this was no paper target. This was a man outside her door.

Could she really pull the trigger if she had to? She wasn’t sure.

“Joe,” she whispered.

Nothing.

“Joe?”

The silence stretched until her skin prickled. Then, soft and mocking through the door: “Just making sure you’re locked up tight.”

Cold spread through her limbs, her focus tunneling on the sound. She tightened her grip on the gun.

The trailer shuddered as footsteps retreated into the dark—slow, deliberate, as if he wanted her to hear every one.

When silence finally returned, it wasn’t relief she felt. It was the certainty he’d be back.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, the Glock still in her hand. She just sat there, the trailer’s quiet pressing in.

Am I doing the right thing?

She already knew the answer was yes—but knowing didn’t make the loneliness any easier. The tears came quietly, slipping down before she could stop them.

It would all be better when she got there—the place her grandmother had called home.

She didn’t know what waited for her there—only that it was the one place she still believed in.

Walking Away