"You're making your own movie?" Brian unscrewed the cap from a bottle of water.

"Trying to." Cushing sat on the hotel bed. The springs screeched beneath him. "But I need a cameraman."

"I don't know," Brian said. "We got to be in Baja in a few days. And Jessie seems pretty stressed."

"That's the best part! It's taken care of, I can delay things, no big deal," Cushing said. "Trust me, I'll take care of it."

"I don't know man, this is their equipment..."

"You have a phone, right? You always make those little videos with it; they look nice on YouTube."

"You watch my channel?"

"You make me watch it. Every single thing that goes up."

"Still, you remember," Brian said.

"If I take care of it, will you do it?"

"All right." Brian took a swig of water. "We won't have mikes or anything, but I can make it work. On one condition."

"Whatever you want. Drugs, money, let me know," Cushing said.

"I want you to promise you will embrace happiness. Try to be happy. Use this as an opportunity-"

"No," Cushing said.

"You just have to change how you think-"

"Nah." Cushing shook his head.

"Not even for a friend?" Brian asked.

"We're not friends. We're barely acquaintances. I don't know your last name and I'm only 20% sure your first name is Brian."

"Well," Brian said, inhaling sharply. "This is the kind of favor I only do for friends."

"Are you extorting friendship from me?" Cushing asked.

"Yeah." Brian nodded. "Pretty much."

"Fuck, you drive a hard bargain," Cushing said.

* * *

With the sun going down and temperature dipping slowly, Maverick examined the inside of the trailer house. The fire didn't burn through the roof completely, but one rain would be enough to cave in the ceiling over the kitchen.

Maybe Roman could help him repair the roof? The heat inside the trailer choked him. Maverick never turned on the window units. Aside from grabbing food, he never stayed in the house very long at all anymore.

The terrors started after his mother passed. His late night visits from the rotting man. He knew he was asleep, on some level he had to be. But the acrid-sweet smell, the figure crawling into his room, it all felt so real.

The fear rivaled what he felt the first time he saw the Wildman. Standing in the woods, looking down on him from a gap in the trees and brush. Like the rotting man, the Wildman was something that simply didn't belong, not in this world.

While he felt relief every morning that broke without a glimpse of his phantom, Maverick spent most of his life in pursuit of one more sighting of the Wildman. He longed for that final confirmation, that proof that sometimes there are monsters in the dark.

He started sleeping in his truck, the monstomobile. The converted food truck was his command center, now home. He never saw the specter there.

Roman answered on the third ring.

"Hey there, buddy," he said with a drawl.

"Hey Roman. Well, those kids about burned my house down."

"The fuck you say?" Roman laughed.

"Bottle rocket. Left a big ass hole in the roof. Think you can fix it?"

"Shit yeah. I'll stop by tomorrow or the day after. Soon as I get off work. Speaking of, these bastards better start treating me better or I fuckin' walk."

Roman threatened to quit his water department gig every other week, particularly in the summer months.

"How you doing? How's the world doin' ya, Mav?" Roman asked.

"Eh, fucking Dwyer and Sims. I guess I should be happy. I just bring a smile to everyone's face," Maverick said.

"There's your problem, man," Roman said. "You stew in that shit. Let it go, stop taking notes. They can't hurt you."

"They nearly burned my house down," Maverick said.

"Not like you sleep there anyway," Roman said.

"And! If I was keeping score and not letting things go, this call wouldn't be happening," Maverick said.

"See, see there, buddy. The fact that you say that says you're not over it," Roman said. The snuff packed in his lips exaggerated his accent.

"Oh, go home to your loving spouse, you fuckhead," Maverick said.

"Fuck you too," Roman said. "I'll check out that roof tomorrow."

Maverick hung up. He tapped the box next to the couch. His accolades and newspaper appearances, some framed, others encased in plastic pages in photo albums. He thought of hanging them up after his mother died, instead they remained in the box, a shelter for the families of fiddle back spiders within.

Cushing better not be fucking with me, Maverick thought. I can't afford it.

He knew his fate otherwise. How many other cryptozoologists and monster hunters died to no fanfare, other than a cursory mention on a couple of Bigfoot blogs?

Maybe he would be like Roy Mackal, dying unnoticed even among those who shared his passion for the unknown. Or Grover Krantz, remembered more for having his skeleton displayed with his dog at the Smithsonian than for his lifelong search for Sasquatch, or the dozens of others who went unnoticed into the ether.

Maverick would be them. He would be less than them, unless he found the monster, unless he left something behind for people to see.

"It has to work," Maverick said to himself. "It has to."

He crawled into the Monstomobile, turning on the window unit he rigged to the truck at night, powered through a tangle of extension cords running to the trailer.

Maverick grabbed his journal from a stack of yellowed notebooks. Habit made him keep up the journal, collecting his doubt and pity in barely legible script. Jet thought it was a good idea. Maybe he could write a book on his quest for the Nobility, Texas Wildman, another thin tome for the metaphysical section of the bookstores.

Maverick wondered if she still thought that.

I should burn these soon, he thought. You don't have to leave everything behind, after all.

In his pallet on the floor in the rear, he wrapped himself in nostalgia,watching snowy VHS tapes of either TheLegend of Bigfoot or The CreatureFrom Black Lake until hopefully, sleep overtook him.