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His left arm was stiff and painful, meaning he had to steer with just his right hand, and the shoulder pain was getting worse. But he had to keep going. He had to try to find his father, who might be able to help, if anyone could. He headed west on 28 to the Prince William Parkway and then to Route 66 West, passing through verdant countryside. After an hour and a quarter, when he was as certain as he could be that no one was following him, he stopped in the town of Winchester, Virginia. Looking for a CVS or other pharmacy, he passed a sign for a family practice physician and decided to go in and see if he could wangle an emergency appointment.

The doctor was booked all day, his receptionist said. You should go to the emergency room. Paul thanked her and went to a CVS, where he bought peroxide, SteriStrips, gauze bandages, tape, Neosporin, and Advil. He was covered in blood, but the cashier barely seemed to notice.

He returned to the Jeep, dry-swallowed a handful of Advil. He pulled off his shirt, poured peroxide on his wound, and yowled in pain. He daubed the wound with antibiotic. Then, though it was still weeping blood, he covered it with a large bandage and taped that into place.

A few minutes later, he continued driving. In short order, he was in West Virginia, then out of it. He was in Maryland briefly, until he crossed into Pennsylvania on the Dwight D. Eisenhower Highway. He was headed for northern Pennsylvania.

The Hammersley Wild Area in the Susquehannock State Forest.

Quadrant Twenty-Eight.

The pain in his shoulder was getting worse. It was on fire.

The last part of the journey, which took five and a half hours, was a straight line north, to northern Pennsylvania, close to the border with New York State. It was a monotonous drive, and at times, his head swam with the pain. He stopped just once, for gas and to change the dressing on his wound.

Austin was a tiny town in southwestern Potter County, Pennsylvania. He’d done his research on his phone. Population 482. Made Derryfield look like a booming metropolis. On the Freeman Run, a river powering paper mills and sawmills back in the day. The town was washed away when the big dam failed, a hundred some years ago, and then rebuilt. Its motto, he’d read on Wikipedia, was “The town too tough to die.” He liked the sound of it.

He passed a campground where several RVs were parked. He looked for a downtown, but there really wasn’t one to speak of. He passed several inns, a few restaurants, a gas station. A handful of brick buildings that looked like they’d been built at the beginning of the twentieth century or earlier. A pretty little town.

He was hungry, but the pain was calling. The wound kept seeping blood. He pulled over when he spotted a sign for an internal medicine practice. The office was on the second floor of a three-story wooden building. This doctor was booked all day, too, but his nurse-receptionist took one look at the bandages on Paul’s shoulder and said with a professional scowl, “When did this happen?”

“A few hours ago.”

“What is it?”

“A bullet wound. Hunting accident.”

“You need antibiotics. Is the bullet in you, do you know?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Well, you need to get it out, like now. You need to go to the ER.”

He shook his head. “I need to see Doctor Lichtenberg.” He’d seen the name on the sign. Maybe a small-town doctor would make an exception and not report the gunshot.

She called the doctor in his treatment room, and he emerged in the reception area, a man in his fifties with a close-shaved gray beard. He stood, arms folded, and looked at Paul’s bloodstained shirt. “What happened to you?”

“I got shot. Hunting accident. But I don’t want this reported to the authorities.”

“Where’s the guy who shot you? He took off?”

“It’s complicated. You don’t have to report this, do you?”

“I do. I have to. If I don’t, I could lose my license.”

Paul nodded. The doctor was not persuadable, he could see that. “Could you at least prescribe me some antibiotics?”

“Same problem. If I don’t report that I saw and treated a gunshot victim, I could lose my license. Can’t take that chance. I’m sorry.”

Paul left the doctor’s office and found the town’s only gas station, bought a map, some water, and some energy bars.

He had to enter the woods and try to find his father. Austin was very close to the remotest part of the state, the Hammersley Wild Area. Which, he read in the brochure, was over thirty thousand acres of wilderness. The brochure warned about bears (“Do not store food or any scented items like toothpaste and deodorant in a tent, including clothing with food residues.”)

There was a small parking area off a dirt road called Gravel Lick Run. No one else was parked there. It was a cold, overcast day. The sky was steel gray. There was a faint drizzle. He parked the car, found a poncho in his now-loaded backpack, and put it on. He needed to cover up the blood. Then he set off.

He was following the Deacon’s explicit instructions, but they struck him as crazy. Did he hope to run into his father just by walking the trails? What did the Deacon mean when he said that he’d tell his fellow off-gridders to be “on the lookout” for Stan? What exactly was Paul looking for in these thirty thousand acres? He wondered if he could really count on these eccentric men—but what choice did he have?

Once you get to Quadrant Twenty-Eight , the Deacon had told him, find a clearing, a prominent landmark, and there I want you to build a cairn, a stack of stones. And wait there. Someone will find you.

Paul walked on—his limp was no longer so bad, though his shoulder was on fire—and after a few minutes, he saw a couple of men carrying backpacks and wearing L.L.Bean attire. “Excuse me,” Paul said. “Did you guys see anyone on your hike who looked like they’ve been living in the woods? Probably pretty disheveled?”

The guys both shook their heads, while exchanging a What’s up with this dude? glance. Paul looked pretty damned disheveled himself.

He continued walking. About ten minutes later, he saw a couple coming toward him—in their thirties, athletic. He smiled and said, “Quick question—did you guys run into anyone on your hike who looked like he may actually live in the woods? Someone sort of rough looking?”

The couple looked at each other and laughed. “There were several,” the guy said. “Last one was—do you remember where?”

“Yeah,” the woman said. “There was a guy we passed a couple of miles back.”

“Oh, yeah? What’d he look like?” Paul asked the woman.

“Untrimmed beard, long hair. Clothes kind of tatty.”

“Where was this?”

“Where Hammersley Fork meets Bunnell Ridge Trail,” the guy said. “It’s where the two mountain streams converge. This guy was filling his water bottle.”

“But as soon as he saw us, he scurried off,” his partner added.

“Thank you,” Paul said. He waved goodbye and resumed walking through the woods. Forty-five minutes later, he found the intersection with Bunnell Ridge Trail, saw a campsite with a few tents pitched. Nearby, two streams converged. No one else was there. The Deacon had told him to build a cairn at a prominent landmark, and since the couple had described a bearded guy getting water here, Paul hoped he was in a fairly good location.

He put down his backpack and started collecting stones. It was painful, lifting stones with his shoulder in such agony. But he persisted, and after fifteen minutes, he’d assembled a stack of stones about three feet high. Sort of a New Age-y thing to build. Very Sedona. A prayer stone stack: a marker that told others you’d been there. But he was following the Deacon’s strange instructions.

Then, not knowing what else to do, he waited. He sat on the ground on a tarp and waited.

After a while—an hour? Two?—someone emerged from the woods, a young-looking guy with a full beard and long hair, like his fellow off-gridders, in a dirty, ripped jacket. He was holding a CB radio handset.

The young guy approached, and Paul said what he’d been told to say. “Catch any muskie?”

“Got some frying up right now,” the bearded guy promptly replied.

And that was the coded exchange, confirmation that this guy had been in touch with the Deacon.

“Thank you,” Paul said.

The bearded young man pulled out the radio’s long black antenna. “You want to see the Professor?”

Is that what they call him? Paul smiled. “Yes. The Professor.”

The younger guy clicked a button on his handheld and then disappeared back into the trees.

Ten minutes later, an old man with stooped shoulders, long gray hair, and a full gray beard emerged from the forest.

Stanley Brightman stood for a minute and looked at Paul.

Paul looked back. Saw the bags under his father’s eyes, the deep lines that scored his forehead and cheeks.

“You look like shit,” his father said.

“Just about to say the same to you,” Paul replied.