Side by side, our feet resting on the headlights, Kent and I talk. He teaches elementary school in Manitoba, and with the remaining weeks of his summer break, he’s hiking, adventuring, and exploring national parks. Dehydrated from too much solitude, I drink in communion and belonging, savoring the feeling that someone else gets it. Spontaneous images, like bubbles floating off a wand, fill my mind—future moments we could share.
For a moment, I am transported—caught in that same electric charge I once felt with Dan, the kind that made the world feel suspended in time. But this is different. I’m different.
A thick rope of light fractures the sky, illuminating our faces. As Kent says, “Holy shit!” our eyes meet and we smile. Then it’s dark again. In the lull, we sit in the quiet. This is nice, I think, feeling the night’s warmth and the comfort of company.
Then suddenly, Kent’s hand—warm but firm—closes around my wrist. His strained whisper cuts through the stillness: “Don’t move.”
The calm shatters. A rubber band stretches to its limit in my chest. My senses snap to attention—eyes darting, ears straining—but I find no clue as to why he’s frozen like this.
Time warps, seconds stretching into minutes as I frantically search for an answer. Then, in a flash of lightning, I see it. A bison. Its head stands level with our own.
Its sheer size shifts something inside me. Fear eclipses thought. The world goes dark, leaving only the pounding of my heart, spotlighted, blaring through the speakers. I am reduced to my instincts, paralyzed, and gripped.
My eyes lock onto the shadow moving in the blackness. I hear breath flare from its nostrils, then the slow crunch of gravel beneath hooves. Kent’s grip tightens as the bison steps directly in line with us—so close that if we extended our arms, we could touch it.
Tiny nerve blasts of endorphins surge through my body, screaming for me to run. Now. But the lesser prey knows better. Freeze. Stay poised. Be ready to launch, like a rabbit under threat.
The beast moves as if in slow motion. One step. Then another. Its pace is agonizing, unhurried, oblivious to the two humans sitting motionless, barely breathing, fearing for their lives.
Then, as quietly as it arrived, it drifts back into the blackness from which it came, hooves dragging, dissolving into the void.
We remain still, bound by an unspoken pact, long past the moment of safety. And then—almost simultaneously—we snap back like newly wound children’s toys released all at once.
“Can you believe that?!”
“Holy mother effin shit!” Kent and I talk over each other, laughter spilling out in waves of relief.
Whether we notice it started or not, pebble-sized raindrops are falling, dampening our hair, skin, and clothes.
“Want to go inside?” Kent motions to the car as he slides down the hood.
“Sure,” I say, following suit. Still not fully recovered, I rush to the passenger door, swinging it open and slamming it shut as quickly as I can.
Going On 40 
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