The sign on Highway 89 for his miniscule town was instructional: Pray, followed by a large arrow that pointed the way to his crumbling house. Hollis Dixon passed this sign twice a day on the twenty mile bus ride to and from his high school in Livingston, Montana. He imagined that years ago all the surrounding towns got together, picked out the worst of their lot, and transported them to this nothing place. He envisioned a black clad preacher hammering this sign into the ground: Pray, hoping that those passing by on their way to or from Yellowstone would ask God for guidance for the poor souls residing the three and a half miles to the east of Highway 89. Hollis assumed, given the present conditions of things, that no one bothered.
Hollis, home for his father's funeral. He wondered if anything had changed, if anybody had said a prayer for this God-forsaken place. He certainly hadn't.
The dilapidated road sign to Pray leaned toward the east. And someone had altered the sign, replacing its "a" with a crudely written "e." Prey. How fitting, thought Hollis. His house, his family, his very life had been consumed by the Montana wilderness.
Sighing, he turned up the dirt road that led to Livingston. When a shadow fell across his path, Hollis barely had time to scream.
Continuation: Nancy Conner