Free Waiting for Harvey (The Spirits of Maine) by Lydia North, Kim Scott

build a fire out there.  Time was ticking by and I couldn’t fail.  I had prepared to travel out to the road that day but had not considered what I might do if I couldn’t find it.  At what point would I surrender and turn back yet again? 
    I continued along the trail.  Not far ahead I saw a fork in the road.  I looked to the left and right and steered to the right.  For about a mile, there was nothing but dense pine trees on both sides.  The machine climbed higher, and I felt colder air on my face.  With a growing frustration, I continued on for a few more miles. 
    Discouraged, but unwilling to give up, I stopped to think.  I dug through my pockets and pulled out a stale granola bar.  I regretted that I hadn’t brought a thermos of coffee.  I drank the last of the water from the first of my two bottles.  I shook my head, feeling like a fool for my poor planning.  John would have been prepared the day before, and he would have found the main road.
    I stopped and looked to the sky again.  I estimated that no more than a few hours of daylight remained.  Soon, I would need to turn back or commit to staying out in the woods overnight.  Neither of the choices appealed to me.  I hated to admit that I lacked the skills to survive on my own.  I needed to spend more time with John, to learn what he had tried to teach me years earlier.  If I had listened I wouldn’t be in the spot I was in.    
    Discouraged, I turned the ignition key to on again.  The engine sputtered and hesitated then roared to life.  I let it idle while I secured my backpack again.  The shoe lace of my right boot had come untied.  I lifted my foot, putting it against the side of the ATV to tie it again.  I heard the sloshing sound as the machine rocked.  The gauge on top of the tank had no numbers, but the hand had dropped below the last divider, into the red zone.  I flicked the cover of the gauge, hoping it was only stuck. 
    “No, no, no!” I roared and slammed my fist against the tank.  My pointless venture the day before had done nothing more than waste fuel.  Furious, I kicked the machine several times.  I couldn’t remember when I had ever felt so angry.   
    Hoping to conserve the remaining fuel, I drove slower along the road.  I breathed a silent prayer and followed the trail around another curve.  After only a few more miles, I saw a sign nailed to a tree.  It warned against hunting on the property.  My hopes rose.  People!  There would be no need to post the land if there were no people out there.  The new sign was a vibrant hunter orange. Someone had been out there recently to put up that sign.  Whoever owned the land cared enough to post it.  They might even live in the area.  People!
    No more than 50 yards further along the road, another sign had been posted.  It was another warning for hunters, advising that they were not welcome.  I sped up and saw a larger sign in bright blue up ahead.  As I approached, I was able to make out the words, Lamoureaux Brothers .  They might not live in the area, but they worked there!  They would have transportation to Saint Francis, Fort Kent, or Van Buren!  Or cell phones with reception!  I accelerated again, smiling as I passed the large signboard.
    Ahead on the road another warning to hunters had been nailed to an ancient pine tree.  Beyond it, I saw a wide gap between the trees.  I slowed and turned off the road.  Bordered by pine, poplar and spruce trees a driveway had been carved through the woods.  Nearly a quarter mile wide circle had been cleared.  The bright yellow construction equipment was been parked in a neat row at the back of the property.  To the left was an ugly old house trailer, resting on stacks of concrete blocks.
    My heart sank.  None of the snow had been disturbed.  I looked for the usual pick-up trucks and other small vehicles, but there were none.  I wondered what day of the week it might be and tried to calculate it.  I