Michael Adams always wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail, or at least part of it. He had pictures of the Blue Ridge Mountains tacked to the inside of his cubicle, and when the phone wasn’t ringing, or he had a moment amid data to enter, he would stare at the pictures and think, "Yep, one day. That’s me. Out of here. Fresh air, baby, far away from this shit."
He didn’t realize that "out of here" would be much sooner than he’d imagined. His small electronics company was bought out by one much larger, and in spite of initial promises that no one would have to worry, all the middle and lower level employ-ees began to worry big time when the pink slips started showing up. Michael got his on a Wednesday, and was out and gone on Friday. His severance was miniscule–the month’s pay minus a couple pro-rated days. Out on his butt with a box of paper clips, paper pads, and a company mug. And there was the rent due in three weeks, along with credit card bills, the car payment, and assorted other goodies that came every month like his ex-girlfriend’s cramps.
It was then Michael planned his escape. He dropped his cat off at the SPCA—it was a worthless cat, anyway, always hissing and scratching for no good reason—told the apartment manager he was moving, and left. Didn’t even take a last look in the mail-box, because he knew what would be in there and what wouldn’t.
The Blue Ridge in October was all he could have expected. Virginia sky, clear and cool, white tufts of clouds holding soft and high. Birds—eagles, hawks, buzzards, he couldn’t quite tell as he had never studied birds—circled slowly and effortlessly. Trees bloomed red, rust, and gold. Even in the middle of the day, insects chirred persistently, a peaceful sound that made Michael want to lie down and sleep.
But he had places to go. Places to hide.