THE GHOSTS OF HIGHWAY 9: A ROAD HOME

Jax swung his leg off the bike and stood up, stretching his aching lower back with a low groan. He walked around to the back of the machine and unbuckled Leo’s small backpack from the sissy bar. When he turned around, the boy was still sitting motionless on the passenger seat, his eyes wide and dark in the pale moonlight, wrapped completely inside Jax’s oversized canvas jacket.

“End of the line, partner,” Jax said softly, his voice cutting through the quiet mountain air. He reached out, scooped Leo off the bike with effortless strength, and set him down gently on the packed dirt.

Leo stumbled slightly as his scuffed sneakers hit the ground, his legs stiff from the long, freezing ride. He pulled the oversized sleeves back from his hands and looked up at the decaying cabin. The windows were dark, cracked, and smeared with years of grime, and the front door hung slightly ajar on a single rusted hinge. It didn’t look like a sanctuary; it looked like a tomb.

“Is this where we live now?” Leo asked, his voice small and hollow, echoing off the damp timber walls.

“Temporarily,” Jax replied, pulling a heavy steel flashlight from his saddlebag and clicking it on. The bright beam cut through the swirling dust motes in the chilly night air. “It’s dry, it’s off the map, and nobody’s going to bother us out here. Come on. Let’s see if the mice left us a dry corner.”

Jax pushed the crooked door open with the toe of his boot. It groaned loudly, scraping across the wooden floorboards inside. The beam of the flashlight swept across the interior: a rotting mattress frame in the corner, a rusted wood-burning stove covered in soot, and a thick layer of dust coating everything in sight. It was bleak, cold, and smelled of dry rot and old memories. But there was firewood stacked neatly against the back wall—dry pine cut by someone years ago—and the roof overhead looked mostly intact.

Leo walked in slowly, his footsteps shuffling quietly against the dusty floor. He didn’t complain about the filth or the cold. He dropped his small backpack onto an old wooden crate near the stove and walked over to the dirty window, peering out into the black forest.

Jax set about building a fire. He crumpled up an old greasy grease-rag from his pocket, piled dry pine kindling inside the iron belly of the stove, and struck a match. Within minutes, a bright, crackling orange flame caught hold, casting flickering, dancing shadows across the log walls and throwing a welcome wave of heat into the freezing room.

Jax straightened up, wiping soot from his calloused hands onto his jeans, and looked at the boy. Leo was standing by the stove now, holding his thin hands out toward the iron door to catch the warmth, his pale face illuminated by the firelight.