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This phone call should have never happened. Because in Cody’s life, there were no midnight calls from unknown numbers on Tuesdays. Or any other day of the week, for that matter. Unfortunately, late-night surprise calls were standard practice for one of his old acquaintances.
He really wanted to hang up as soon as he heard that cheerful but always quiet (as if Vos had just been laughing) "Hey, Cody." His stomach twisted at the friendliness of someone who hadn’t been in touch for two weeks. The overstuffed backpack shoved into the closet exactly that long ago flashed in his mind.
"Hey, I need help. You’re my only hope."
"Quinlan, do you need me to give you the emergency number?"
"I’m sitting in my car in the middle of the woods, and I think someone’s watching me from the swamp."
Cody grimaced.
"Okay, I’ll call 911."
Quinlan Vos and his usual stories. First, he’d promise a road trip to the coast, then vanish without a word—just dead silence on the other end of the line. And that was just one thread in the tangled mess where their lives crossed.
Like the time Quinlan managed to slice open a vein while opening a can. When Cody rushed over to take Vos to the hospital, he found him swigging whiskey straight from the bottle in the company of his drunk-off-their-ass friends.
"Finally, you’re here!" he announced cheerfully, raising the bottle in salute. And in that moment, the world slowed down for Cody, a red haze of fury clouding his vision.
He could see it—snatching the bottle from Quinlan’s hand, smashing it over that shaggy head, then dragging out the gas cans from the car and dousing everything. He’d start with the idiot whose makeshift tourniquet was already slipping, then move on to his snoring buddies. But of course, there were no gas cans in the trunk. Which meant he’d have to haul the moron to the hospital after all.
Later, Vos got a tattoo on his forearm—a shark skeleton, with the scar as its spine.
"In memory of friends who always come through," he told everyone. After that, Cody stopped answering Vos’s calls. And now, by picking up, he was stepping back onto the shaky ground known as "the life of Quinlan Vos."
"Look, Cody, I’m in no state to drive..."
"Are you drunk?"
"Not at all! Just a little weed to relax," came the offended grumble through the phone.
"Send me your coordinates so I can tip off the cops."
"Don’t be such a buzzkill, just listen! Had a rough day, so I drove out to the middle of nowhere to unwind. And while I was cutting through the backwoods, I think I blew a tire... I could turn back, but it’s a three-hour hike. Didn’t wanna leave old Jee stranded too long."
Cody sighed heavily. Of course—"old Jee," Vos’s beloved jeep. A worthy reason to wake up an old friend in the middle of the workweek. As Cody debated whether this was also a worthy reason to tell Vos to go to hell—
"Just stay put. Got it?"
"I’ll bring what you need." Click.
After ending the call, Cody set the phone aside and stared at the ceiling for a long moment.
He didn’t understand why Quinlan Vos—who took care of everyone close to him—turned into a child around him. Why the reply to Rex’s letter was still sitting in drafts, unsent. Why the envelope from the Maine Youth Correctional Facility remained unopened. Why the damn fridge in the kitchen wailed like a dying buffalo. And, most of all, why he was about to drop everything again to bail out some stoned idiot.
Naturally, his low-slung Volvo wasn’t going to make it through the backwoods and bogs where Vos had stranded himself. The risk of getting two cars stuck was too high. So Cody had no choice but to kill the engine, grab his tool bag and flashlight, and step out into the damp embrace of the midnight gloom.
Luckily, he didn’t have to fight through the underbrush—a narrow clearing stretched ahead, likely the same path Vos’s jeep had taken. Double-checking the map on his phone to confirm the marker wasn’t far off, Cody set off.
It was strange, walking through the woods again, the pale beam of his flashlight leading the way, the weight of the bag the only thing on his back. Years ago, his father used to take him and Rex on long weekend hikes to the sea. After splashing around, shouting with joy, stuffing themselves with fried fish, they’d usually stumble home in the dark. Cody blinked, as if a gnat had flown into his eye. The memories made him want to be anywhere but here. To just turn around and leave Quinlan to his own mess.
The deeper he went, the more his unease grew. So it was no surprise that when he finally spotted the faint glow of a campfire in the distance, Cody Fett felt a familiar surge of anger.
He was just steps away from the source of tonight’s troubles, ready to hurl his tool bag at the back of Vos’s head—when the man turned around.
"You’re like clockwork, Cody. Perfect timing for coffee!"
"What is this?"
"Coffee, Cody."
"I meant the fire. And this whole... impromptu campsite."
Cody nodded at the empty folding chair to Quinlan’s right. The second one was occupied by Vos himself, sprawled comfortably.
"Aside from the flat tire, this is all part of my evening plans."
Squinting slightly, he smiled—like a well-fed cat after a successful night hunt, now basking by a warm fire. And the "mouse" in Cody’s head started to suspect something.
"Please tell me your plans didn’t include me joining you."
"Well, at some point, I started feeling... lonely. Like the loneliness of the whole world had thickened around me. And then I felt... watched."
Taking the mug from Quinlan’s hand, Cody sank into the chair. Listening to his dizzying tales standing up was beyond him.
"I was wondering which part of your story would turn out to be true. Amazingly, no matter how much of a splinter you are, you never lie. The front right tire’s pretty flat."
The whole time Cody spoke, Quinlan’s gaze flicked between him and the coffee. At the word "truth," his smile widened almost imperceptibly. If Cody had noticed, he might’ve hesitated before taking a sip.
The reaction was instant.
"What the hell is half a pint of whiskey doing in here?!"
"To warm you up!"
Cody grimaced and mocked Vos’s tone: "I’m driving, you know!"
"First, you don’t have to drive back. We can sleep in the car. Second, for God’s sake, it’ll wear off before you count to ten."
"Sounds great, but we’ve got grant deadlines burning—"
Cody set the mug down and started to rise, but Vos’s hand clamped around his wrist. The grip was strange, unexpected. Vos was looking at him with a seriousness—almost frightening—that didn’t match the carefree nonsense from a minute ago.
"That’s not your grant, Cody. It’s Kenobi’s headache. Maybe the whole 212 office’s. And if you don’t spend tomorrow morning kissing ass and plugging leaks, nothing will happen."
Cody barely registered the grip loosening. Vos’s sharp, piercing stare held him tighter.
"Just take the damn cup and let yourself be here."
Slowly, as if the rush had never existed, Cody leaned back in the chair. It wobbled slightly, then settled deeper into the earth—like its occupant had finally found solid ground.
"Then make proper coffee. This swill’s undrinkable."
Cody said it with exaggerated sternness, earning only a sly grin in return. Strangely, he didn’t feel better—if anything, more uneasy.
Maybe, he thought, it was because they lived in different worlds.
Cody was fixing a kitchen sink while Vos rafted the Caribbean. Cody burned midnight oil at the office while Vos rode a motorcycle through Mexico. Sometimes, Vos vanished for months, never once inviting Cody along.
"They’ll listen, shuffle some papers, and say: ‘They live in the damn desert! Piss off!’ That’s it."
"First, Clair Patterson. Second, the industry’s changed since then."
"The industry, maybe. People? Not much. If anything, they’ve gotten dumber."
"Pretty bold words from a guy who once ran into traffic without looking."
"Alright, alright!" Quinlan cut in. "I admit it—I’m as much of an idiot as anyone."
"Exactly. We’re all idiots. Just try not to make it worse."
They fell silent again, each reclined in their chair, legs stretched toward the small fire that smelled of dry grass, the little tin pot steaming with coffee.
The quiet was awkward, yet Cody couldn’t bring himself to speak. He didn’t know what he felt about the half-Hawaiian, half-God-knows-what sitting beside him. A ridiculous thought crept in: What if this is a coyote spirit? What if the real Vos was far away, somewhere cold, snow clinging to his dreads as he shielded his eyes against the wind?
Or what if the real Vos didn’t exist at all? What if this forest phantom was watching him—intently, hungrily? Why did even a single glance feel dangerous? Cody couldn’t remember why. Or how many drinks he’d had.
What if there’d been no phone call? What if he was the one who’d felt eyes on him? What if the sky shattered, swallowing the forest, leaving nothing but the dark and the gaze of the coyote—or Quinlan Vos?
"Quinlan," Cody murmured, as if the name could banish the fear creeping in with the shadows. Beyond the firelight, the trees twisted into grotesque shapes—four-winged birds, many-tailed beasts. "Which one’s eyes did you feel on you?"
Then, from the mass of darkness, a human-like figure emerged, moving toward the fire.
"Quinlan!" Cody called louder.
He knew who it was. And he didn’t want to face him. Not now. Not ready.
A rustle. A hand on his shoulder. Cody jerked back, toppling from the chair. Above him, Quinlan Vos’s face loomed.
"You’re a lightweight," he laughed. "Didn’t think you’d pass out after two cups. Pleasant dreams, I hope?"
The vision still clung to Cody. He glanced away, uneasy.
"No. I dreamed about my father."
No response. Vos just kept staring, as if tracing invisible constellations on Cody’s face—lips to forehead, brow to nose.
"He was there," Cody nodded toward the trees. "It didn’t feel like a dream. I..."
His throat tightened. Words couldn’t capture the dread that figure had stirred.
Now Vos was watching him with something close to concern, blinking rapidly but still frowning. The mystical coyote from the vision seemed laughable now.
"I don’t know what happened between you and your old man, but you’re okay now. You’re where you want to be. Well, not exactly—I know you hate camping. And I’m not exactly stellar company. Damn it..."
"Shut up, Quinlan," Cody said softly.
"Now you sound like yourself," Vos grinned, though the tension didn’t leave his frame.
"But I think you’re right," Cody murmured. The grass under his palms felt damp. He fought the urge to reach for Vos’s shoulder. "I am where I want to be right now."
The unspoken words hung heavy: I wish I could stay. Never go back. Pretend I’m finally lost, like I always wanted. No past behind me, no future ahead.
Cody stared into the forest’s depths. White gnats flickered at the edge of his vision. The grass between his fingers dug in sharply.
"Is that why you always run away?"