“I Don’t Want to Hear a Word”: The Blind Pride That Cost a Young Veteran Twenty Years

Johnny hired private investigators. He spent every weekend in the city, checking every lead. He drove through every small town in the tri-state area.

But it was as if she had never existed. By the following spring, broken and hollow, he took the job as a back-country ranger. He needed the isolation.

The job was his penance. He couldn’t stand the way people in town looked at him—some with pity, others with disgust. He became the man in the woods, the one people whispered about.

Twenty years passed that way. The townspeople still gave him a wide berth when he came in for supplies. The whispers never truly stopped.

But today, he had to go to the store. The regional office had informed him that he was getting an intern for the summer. He needed to stock up on groceries for two.

Even if it was just a college kid looking for credit, the extra hands would be helpful. The hiking trails were getting overgrown, and he wasn’t as fast as he used to be.

The poachers had been getting bolder lately, too. He needed someone with young legs who could keep up in the brush. He was actually looking forward to the company, though he’d never admit it.

Early the next morning, a dusty green SUV pulled up to the station. The district supervisor, Greg, climbed out and stretched his back with a loud groan.