If there's someone or something out there, it's definitely seen you. Forget Banes; what if it's some farmer? You don't want to get sniped by an Iraq War veteran who thinks he can invoke the Castle Doctrine. Moving cautiously, you feel around the outside of the barn, looking for anything interesting, then scan the tree line one last time before slipping inside.
It's dark and unpleasantly warm. It smells like rotten hay, and freezing water drips from the rafters. You search meticulously, turning over boards for the better part of an hour, checking the treeline every few minutes.
This doesn't look like it was ever a workshop. That must have burned. Nonetheless, you climb a rickety ladder up into the slimy filth of the rafters. Another glance outside, through cracked boards. No movement at the treeline.
It's dark enough inside that you need to flick on your lighter. You drag a soggy hay bale away from a window, letting pale sunlight in. You resume your search until you spot a wet gleam. You reach out, hands clumsy in your gloves, and pull something white and sharp out of wood so soft it's the consistency of cornbread.
A photo. Badly stained, but you can still make out two smiling, sunburned white men in each other's arms. Judging from their physiques and hairlines, they're probably in their mid-twenties, but their full beards make them look older. The back says "P. Town '92."
Another step and your boot cracks through a board. You stuff the photo in your duster, drop back down onto the ground, and scan the treeline again.
Nothing out there, but the midday sky is dark, almost black. A storm is coming.
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