A cave hidden somewhere above the eastern ridge.
Some said smugglers had used it during Prohibition.
Others said Native families had sheltered there long before the town existed.
Children called it cursed.
My grandfather called that nonsense.
He had once told me.
“People call places cursed when they’re afraid of what they don’t understand.”
I had been ten.
I asked if he had ever been inside.
He smiled.
“Once.”
Then refused to say more.
I remembered roughly where it was.
Beyond the old quarry road.
Past the dry creek.
Up through a section of scrub oak.
A cave did not sound frightening anymore.
Not after prison.
Not after sleeping behind a church.
A cave sounded private.
So I climbed.
The first hour nearly broke me.
My body had been conditioned by years of prison routines.
But not mountain trails.
My feet hurt.
My shoulders hurt.
I stopped often.
