That's why I stood out in the field with a large camping backpack after school, even though it had begun to rain. (The rain was really cold, but I guess rain in late March would be cold). It was so cold that my breath fogged up my glasses as I stared off into the mountains and back at the map I was holding, as I tried to ascertain the best breeding grounds for goat people. My plan was going well already. It was easy to sneak the camping pack in. Nobody noticed. Except for a couple of the bullies. They noticed. (It was my fault. I made it too easy for them to push me over and kick me around on the ground. Those supplies are heavy and the backpack towered over me). Good thing Claire wasn't there. I wouldn't want her to see me lying on the ground like a turtle flipped on its back. But if she had been there I would have knocked the shit out of them. At night sometimes I dreamt how I would beat them. Dodge. Uppercut to the face. Don't stop hitting till they got the message. (But I was already in enough trouble, and it was easier to take a hit and not say or do anything.)

But anyway, I told her I'd wait at the fields in the part where the normal soccer-slash-football field ends and the tall brush grass begins. She wrote that she would come after clarinet practice; her last letter to me was tucked in my coat pocket, while the others were packed away in a Ziploc bag in the bottom of my bag. (I hoped she brought an extra pair of socks, even if they are girly; mine got wet.)

The letters were how we talked. He said that serious things should be put down in writing, so I guess he considered me a "serious" thing. It was also his way of showing me his talent: drawing. (He drew more than anything else at school). His words always seemed purposefully crafted and were perspective on small things: "I agree. Aqua is a much more suiting color for you. It accents your eyes nicely," or "I think you are too hard on yourself. Your music has an enchanting subtly about it, like a fresh picked apple in spring," or "You look sad today. Maybe I'm wrong. But something inside tells me you're sad. I drew you this hoping it would make you feel better."

He told me the tale of the goat men and how his real parents—not the people he lived with, Mr. and Mrs. "Mom and Dad"—had raised and bred the goat men, the half goat, half men that worked in the mountains. I had heard something about the goat men in the mountains before. But these goat men weren't half goat, half men. They were goats that simply acted like men. They ran their own stores, grew and traded their own food, raised and taught their own kids, and even learned how to talk like people. These were the goat men I knew.

Whenever my mind wandered, which was a lot at school, and home, and night, I found myself stepping into the strange town filled with goat people as they did their goat people things. Being as noticeable as a fly on the wall, I imagined sitting in the middle of their public square, taking out my clarinet and playing a melody. Maybe I would draw them closer like a magical pied piper. Or maybe they would continue to meander, living as pseudo-men and pseudo-women, unfazed by the introduction of clarinet music adding to their already strange goat people lives. It felt like a world where Edwin and I could explore together, and maybe it was a world where he and I could belong.

Maybe that's why I liked Edwin.

We could live in a community of pariahs.

(Good thing I brought a big enough umbrella for both of us. And my rain boots.)

We walked mostly in silence, but a pleasant silence, or at least not an awkward silence. (I hoped). I remembered watching a movie where the main character stated that when people could "shut the hell up" and not fill the air with mindless chatter, that was when they knew they had a serious bond. That they could "shut the hell up" and just enjoy each other's company. (Of course that was paraphrasing Pulp Fiction, a movie that Mr. and Mrs.— I mean "Mom and Dad"— used to watch when they made their funny smelling cigarettes. Once they found me, watching them, watching it, and "Mom and Dad" hit me with the remote until the channels started to change on the screen. Sometimes if I push hard enough I can still see the outlines of the pause button on my skin.) So I didn't feel awkward as we neared the gravel path, but instead happy, as I listened only to the rain and the growing sound of the rapids.

And good thing we hadn't talked, because had we been talking and absorbed in mindless chatter we would have kept walking, ignoring the growing roar of the rapids, until it was too late. Where the gravel path should have been, rushing brown water had replaced it. What used to look like a bank of gravel with wildflowers—or at least when I drew it, I imagined there where wildflowers—now looked like coursing coffee and cream decimating anything in its sights. The water had risen so much that it threatened to engulf the trees. The path would have been clear cut and easy, but now I didn't know what to do.

But I didn't want to seem indecisive in front of Claire, or worse not know what I was doing. So I told her to stay there for a moment as I surveyed the sight, taking a rough topology of the grounds and judging the viability of the currents for traveling. (Really all I mustered up was a "stay there". But that version sounded a lot better.) I wanted to avoid the forest as much as possible. It looked thorny, dense, and dark; who knew what savage creatures lingered in its depths.

The current was the only way. Even though the roar grew more deafening and threatening as Claire and I approached it, there wasn't another way. I stretched my hand out motioning for her to stop as I took a few steps ahead of her. If a river monster were to spring out and gobble someone into its belly, it would be better if it was me than her. (Again another thing I wished I could have said out loud to her.) I crouched down to give the look of deep concentration, but really I felt scared; what if a creature was lurking, waiting for me to dip my foot in? I shook my head and, taking a leap of faith, lowered my body into the current.

Good thing Claire had ignored my hand and walked besides me, because if she hadn't I surely would have been swallowed up. Like a monster, the river tried to eat me whole, taking my legs in one gulp. It was Claire that grabbed my pack and helped drag me onto the ground as I hoisted myself shakily up.

All that it had managed to claim were my shoes and socks, leaving me barefoot. (At least I didn't have to worry about wet socks anymore.)

When we reached the end of the forest, it had changed to night, and I could feel my stomach growl. Edwin said that it would be a good time to set up camp; he figured that we were probably half way, or more like two-thirds of the way done with our journey. He placed his backpack down and pulled out a tarp along with tied up metal rods. He must have heard my stomach, because he pulled out a Ziploc bag of trail mix and a granola bar, and insisted I rested and ate while he worked. (He talked sincerely, but also with something that wanted to sound like bravado, which felt very unlike him.) I think he realized this too, because as soon as he finished he went straight to building the tent, working in a muttered silence as if arguing with himself on how to build our shelter. He looked as if he was struggling as he tried to keep the rods in place weaving them through the tarp. I wanted to help him, but I think he wanted to show me that he could take care of it all. That he could take care of me. (But I could have easily helped. My parents and I went camping every summer.)

I didn't want to hurt his pride.

All the while I felt as if watchful eyes from the depths of the night were still following me. As if behind every corner a new, more sinister creature was lurking, waiting for the right moment to snatch Claire and me up. I had already left my scent and my mark in too many places: the river, the forest, and now this path. Any time longer could be dangerous, so I hurried us into the tent, shielding us from the outside. I didn't remember it being so narrow. (It was probably because I had two poles left that I couldn't figure out where to put.) But it was a good thing I had those poles because the top of tent began to sag as the rain continued to beat down. We laid down and stared at the water pooling up above us. (I didn't realize the ground, even when muddy, felt that hard and uncomfortable. Maybe I should have also brought a sleeping bag or even a blanket, or an extra pair of clothes.) I felt something churning inside of me, welling up inside of me. Feeling anxious in the silence and trying to forget about the numbing feeling growing in my feet, I turned to Claire and asked her if she could play me a song. How strange it must have been for the creatures beyond to listen to her play. (Maybe if we were lucky enough it would scare them off). But to me, it was soothing, and at least for that moment nothing churned or welled up inside of me anymore.

My feet still felt numb and cold when I stood up and exited the tent. Between the rain and the darkness it was nearly impossible to see anything ahead. My heart began thudding loudly again, this time feeling as if it was fluttering in my stomach and not caught in my throat as I neared the edge of the forest. It was as if walking into a trap.

There was the same muffled eerie silence. I tried to focus my ears and catch any faint movements in the darkness, but all I could hear was echoing beat of my heart. With my eyes I could make out the outlines of a hanging branch, and grabbing it with both hands, I pulled until it snapped off. The sounds seemed to thunder and echo throughout the area, deafening any sounds. (I thought maybe I had heard the wings of a flapping bird or perhaps the pitter-patter of the paws of a running animal). I feared that I had given up my location and had created an opening for whatever lurked. It was like when we played Cowboys and Indians at home. It was always James and the others who were cowboys chasing after me, the lone Indian, the last of the Mohicans. No matter how dark or how buried of a place I hid, their beady eyes always acted as a guiding light as they honed in on me upturning tables, beds, and clothes piles pulling me out of hiding. Even here in the forest their eyes were still watching me. Like the strange, murderous eyes of a creature or a cowboy, two yellow eyes focused in on me. Something inside of me cracked, and I felt whatever it was that had been welling up inside of me overflow and pour out. It was the same feeling I had felt when James had caught me and wrestled me into submission while the others kids beat me with sharpened sticks. "Savage, we got your weapons," they said. "You killed our friends. Now we'll kill you." The words "savage" and "kill" echoed in my mind as I swung the stick at the yellow eyed creature, like I did when I finally wrestled out of James' hold and pounced on Derek, a boy who was two years older than me. I kept swinging even when the animal shrieked and even when Derek cried out in pain as I whacked him across the eyes and started beating his face with my hands. Blood spurted out, covering my hands as I continued pounding the fur. Tears bled down Derek's face as James hoisted me off and called "bastard and bitch" to help.

I screamed.

"Bastard and bitch" said that I was "troubled and violent". The psychiatrist agreed: "troubled and violent" but "fixable". What they really meant was "crazy and savage" and "druggable". (I was a bad animal and Indian after all; maybe even part goat). I sat in the mud and rubbed my hands in it trying to wash away the blood. Did I take my medicine today? Did I remember to bring it with me? Where did the creature go? It wasn't in front of me anymore. Did it limp away? Or maybe it was reduced to nothing. What would I say anything to Claire? I wouldn't. There was nothing to say.

But I felt better and felt cleansed as I stood up.

I survived. I made it out alive.

I kissed her.

And then she kissed me.

It came and went in what felt like less than a minute, but we just stood still, not knowing what to say or do, as our hearts thudded violently against our chests and our breathing grew shallow and cold. It was Edwin who surveyed the area first. (I didn't want to leave the safety of the tree, but he kept insisting on finding his bag). I followed him, watching him stand on top of the rubble as the morning sun came over the horizon. Covered in mud, he looked down staring at the dispositional area that had completely blocked the flow of the river. He was silent, but the kind of silent that felt as if he were mourning over something irretrievably lost. He only looked at me then back at the mountain, before he resumed his hike to find the goat people.

We climbed over rocks. We climbed over broken trees and dead animals. We climbed in silence and with every step we took the seriousness of the situation sank in. I would not be playing my clarinet anymore. That was swallowed up. I would not be going to high school or college. There probably weren't any in the goat town. I would never see my parents again. They probably thought I was a runaway or worse a dead girl caught in a mudslide with a troubled boy. It will all be okay, said Edwin, once we find the goat men it will all be okay. But what if it wasn't? And as if it were its own mudslide, the same rush I had felt from the forest swept my body electrifying and re-circuiting my senses. With each sense exposed it was like opening my eyes for the first time to the world around me. And as I blinked into the fresh morning light and took in what felt like my first breaths, I looked around and saw that there nothing was waiting for us.

He shook his head. The only way was to walk. He winced as he stood on his feet again covering them with mud. I wanted to offer him something to warm his feet, but anything I had to offer was carried away and lost in the pile of mud.

I asked him if his feet were okay.

Just cold he said.

Just cold.

That was what I had been telling myself ever since James told me where my parents were. It was why I was able to endure the bullies, the Cowboys, the remote wounds; because I knew out in the mountains tucked away in some town were the goat people, my mom and dad, waiting for me to join them. (Maybe that's why they hated me, because I had a mom and a dad who were waiting for me, who loved me, and whom I was going to be with again.)

And I had Claire. Claire understood. Claire cared. That's why I wanted her to join me. I wanted to show mom and dad that it was alright that they abandoned me, that it was okay that they never came back for me, that it was okay that they were goat people—that I was a goat person. Because Claire accepted us. That's why I continued to endure even with cold feet, even after surviving the mudslide, even after losing the letters. The letters. It was stupid to leave them in the bag. I should have kept them in my pocket like Claire's last one, even though that one got ruined too. (Maybe I shouldn't have brought them at all.) That didn't matter, though. Because we were almost there. Because mom and dad would be waiting for us with open arms and ask us about how our day went, and cook us a homemade meal even giving us seconds if we wanted, and let us lay on our own nice comfy beds as they told us their tales of being goat people. They would tell us they loved us, that we would never have to make such a dangerous journey again, that we would never be alone again. That the four of us would be a family.

It would all be okay once we found the goat men.

A man with a gray beard opened the door before I even knocked. Judging from his looks, he must have been in his seventies or something because he was stooped over and used a cane, far too old to be one of Edwin's parents. I told him the reality of the situation. That I, and my friend by the goats, had wandered into the forest. That the mudslide had claimed everything but what we had on. That my friend had severe frostbite. That we were hungry and tired and needed to go home. The man leaned in and squinted at my face. He said he recognized me from the news. That I was reported missing since last night. That my parents cried on the news pleading for someone to find me. That a rescue team was deployed last night. That they found a broken clarinet sticking out from the mud and a volume of letters scattered in the woods. (It was the letters that led them to the dispositional area of the mudslide). That a helicopter had just taken off this morning to do an area search for me. Before I could ask about Edwin, the old man turned around and said that he would call the police and let them know that I was okay. With any luck, the helicopter would be en route. I asked him if there were any other goat herders in the mountain. He said no.

When I exited the cabin, I could hear the sound of helicopter blades beyond the ridge. The rescue crew was probably only minutes away; maybe they had just received the call from the old goat herder. Edwin was still sitting massaging his feet and flapping his clothes to shed the dirt that had crusted over. He waved to me as I approached him, trying to figure out what exactly I should say. (Maybe the truth). And as if reading my mind, a goat exited the corral and walked towards me, blocking the path between Edwin and me. Its beady black eyes stared into mine as it licked its lips looking as if ready to say something profound. The helicopter had just passed the ridge and was hovering above us as the goat opened its mouth.

Bah.