The blue chair appeared at the end of summer, at the place where the trail broke off and became sand. Almost hidden in an island of trees. A few days later, a hole in the sand with blackened logs laid across it. A backpack, a pair of pants. Scattered bullet shell casings. Tire tracks. A smashed microwave. I got into the habit of checking on the chair, the backpack, the pants, the microwave. I got into the habit of scanning the shadows. Of counting shell casings. Sometimes the blue chair would face forward. Sometimes not. I decided I’d better stop checking.
By Lori Lamothe