I'm using a throwaway for obvious reasons, and I'm going to be vague about some details because I still like my pension,

and I still live within driving distance of this place. You can guess the park if you want. It's in

the American Southwest, within a few hours of the four corners. Red Rock canyons, high desert,

juniper, and pinion, a river that looks lazy from above, but will drag you under

in seconds if you're dumb enough to fall in. I worked as a park ranger there for a little over 10 years.

Law enforcement, SAR certified, wildfire qualified, all the letters. If you've ever been to a national park and seen some

poor bastard in a green uniform explaining that, no, you cannot pet the bison, and no, you can't

fly your drone in a nesting area, that was me. I saw a lot of weird stuff out there. People do

stupid things in big, empty places. They also see patterns in shadows and call them cryptids.

You get used to campers swearing they saw a skin walker because a coyote crossed the road and didn't immediately bolt at their headlights.

So let me start by saying this.

I didn't use that word lightly when I was on the job.

I don't use it lightly now.

I grew up a couple hours east on tribal land.

I know the stories.

Where I'm from, you don't say that word for fun.

You don't put it in a hashtag.

I'm breaking that rule now because I don't know what else to call what I ran into.

And because there's a twist that still makes me feel sick when I think about it. Every park has its unofficial rules. The stuff

they don't print on a sign, but the old guys tell you over coffee. My first week, the

chief ranger at the time, a guy named Harris, walked me around the visitor center at dawn.

Nobody else was there yet. He looked like

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