He left the hospital around 2 a.m., navigated the quiet city streets and pulled onto the highway. After four hours of flashing headlights and taillights he drove into the small town and eased his way to the government dock. His old green canoe was slung in its usual spot in the rafters of the dock with its paddles inside. He shouldered it down and carried it over to the water’s edge. At this hour there was no one about except for a heron lazily taking off from a patch of reeds and a few frogs skittering along the shore. The pungent smell of mud and moss rose up to meet him as the canoe splashed down and the paddles thumped into it.

He hauled his backpack from the car and stowed it in the bow of the canoe. With an easy push he settled into the stern and began to paddle. The still water reflected the rising sun which easily pierced the faint haze on this June morning. The heat would rise, but not yet.

With easy strokes he followed the shore with its rare cabins. After a couple of hours he rounded a final point and saw his cabin in the distance across the bay. A loon yodelled near the shore, interrupted in its fishing. He crossed the bay, drew near to the shore and deftly wove his canoe through a mass of lily pads to a hidden inlet where a small creek entered the lake. This was his back door, hidden and private, as opposed to his front door, the dock, facing the lake.

On a rise behind a grove of cedars rose the chimney of his small cabin. He pulled the canoe onto the shore, pulled out his backpack and mounted the slope. Reaching the top he scanned the unpeopled shore opposite with its mass of overhanging trees. He continued his climb, brushing through the cedars with their pungent aroma. Surprisingly, despite the warm damp weather, there were no mosquitoes.

He rounded a corner and reached the cabin with its rickety step and weatherbeaten windows. Reaching for the door handle he was surprised to have it open of its own accord as the door swung inward. Surely he had locked the door last time! Turn the handle to check, pull four times... He must have been distracted.

Warily he searched for signs of an intruder. The floor had no footprints, the counter was clean and the windows were closed. In the cupboard he found the usual emergency supplies of pasta and beans. The single bedroom lay untouched. Somehow he must have forgotten to close the door properly.

Stepping back outside he checked behind the cabin. The pump handle was in its usual upright position but the wood he had split last time had been stacked. Not to his standards, but clearly someone had done some work. Searching further he found the small patch of grass cut short and the tiny garden weeded. But the loose board on the shed still dangled down. Someone had definitely been here, but not a thief as far as he could tell. Perhaps some sort of guardian angel.

Back in the cabin he opened a can of beans and ate it along with some bread he had packed along with a few radishes. He washed down the meal with a mug of tea and sat down to read. In the heat of the sun and feeling the effects of his overnight drive he began to doze and was only awoken hours later by the growl of a boat motor. He sprinted outside but in the dusk could only see the vague outline of a boat wake and hear its splashing on the shore beside the dock.

He returned to the cabin and sat facing the lake pondering the stillness. After a while a whippoorwill began its mechanical call. He listened to it in the growing darkness then watched the North Star and the Big Dipper crisscrossed by overhead flights on their way over the pole. Finally, he fell asleep.

He rose early the next morning, made himself coffee and toast and watched the lake come back to life. The desire overtook him to climb the ridge beyond the cabin. He picked up his walking stick by the door and set out. Despite the sharp grade and the mass of intertwined grapevines, the climb seemed remarkably easy. So there was still some life left in the old guy.

At the top of the ridge he took a moment to turn his head to take in the vista. From the point down on the far left, to the scattering of islands opposite and to the swamp at the end of the bay the lake was empty of boats and no smoke rose from any of the scattered cabins on the far shore. So he was alone.

Suddenly, his reverie was broken by the sound of a hammer near his cabin. One, two then three bangs. The echoes came back across the water to confirm that he had heard something. Turning in the direction he had come he filled his lungs and shouted Hello!. No reply. He tried again twice more then decided to return to the cabin. Using his stick as a prop and following the zigzags made by deer in their passage from the heights to the water, he descended the slope as fast as he could. At the bottom he shouted again but no answer came. Not running but moving as fast as he could he approached the cabin. No one. He circled the building and was surprised to see the old board nailed back up on the shed. So his imagination hadn’t been playing tricks on him.

Back at the cabin he shakily made another cup of coffee and drank it. He needed to check the bay. Pulling his canoe off the shore he glided down the shoreline to the end of the lake. Nothing and no one except for a deer having its morning drink and two beavers enjoying their breakfast of lily pads. As he turned back around he thought he saw up on the ridge he had just visited a woman’s shape in a red plaid jacket and blue jeans. She moved quickly yet carefully. So someone at ease in the woods. He called again without expecting an answer and got none. Finally she disappeared.

At least he now knew who he was dealing with. But why was she so elusive? He spent the rest of the day preparing for her return, sweeping the floor, washing the dishes and setting a fire. Yet no one appeared. Half disappointed, he fell asleep in his chair. His sleep was disturbed by phantasmagorical dreams full of crashes and blinding lights.

He rose early the next morning and scanned the lake. In the distance he could just hear the growl of a motor. It grew louder and then out of the mist emerged a small aluminum boat with a single figure at the stern. The same red plaid jacket, this time slung over her shoulder. The boat continued its straight course to his dock.

After a bump, the boat came to a stop and the woman stepped lithely onto the dock. Mid thirties, dark hair, fit and alert. She climbed the slope from the dock and was headed to his door, a piece of wood and a hammer in her hands. Uneasily, he shrank back into the shadow behind the cabin.

Surprisingly she walked past his hiding place. Pausing opposite him she suddenly shivered and put on her jacket. Her phone rang.

“Hi Jack. Yeah, I’m here. Not much left to do. I’ll put the sign up and take one last look around. Should be back before noon.”

“You’re right, it is a beautiful place. I can see why he loved it. I’d buy it myself if I had the money.”

He prepared to confront this intruder but then thought better of it. More evidence was what he needed. Stealthily he circled around behind her and watched her carefully level the sign and begin to hammer it into a tree. Edging further around he could finally read the print: Estate sale.