I was already alone, of course. But it wasn’t until I unzipped my tent and looked out at the still, quiet world around me did I feel alone. But then, who wouldn’t when there’s nobody to keep me company for miles around and my relatives and friends probably think I’m dead? I got out of my sleeping bag and stepped out of my tent, and then it was suddenly like the tent wasn’t part of me anymore, wasn’t there to protect me, and I was shoved into this much harsher, more wild world.

I felt empty. But that was probably because I was empty. I found my little propane stove and my only pan and spoon, and a little oatmeal and water. I only had the things that fit into my backpack—my tent, my sleeping bag, food and water, sunscreen, a change of clothes. That was all I was carrying when I followed the mountain goat up the little mountain and forgot all about the summer camping trip waiting for me back at its base. I forgot about the camp when I went up the mountain, and when I reached the top of the mountain an hour later, I’d bet most of the camping trip forgot about me. Except for the adults, who probably notified “the authorities,” whatever that is, and “the authorities” told my parents and then got into a helicopter and are looking for me this very moment…and I bet my mother is hysterical and is planning my funeral already.

What made me forget? “It’s all those novels you’re reading, Peter,” my father answered me in my head. But the goat was white and beautiful, and it leaped up the mountain effortlessly, and then, when it saw me following it, it went away and I haven’t seen it since yesterday. I’ve been here since yesterday. Waiting. I’m not sure for what.

I had my oatmeal and some water and then looked out at the West Texas mountains, great and majestic, dotted with ocotillo and woody shrubs. Bright flashes of green cottonwood trees showed where there was a spring or water source underground. I loved those places, cool and quiet with the rustling cottonwoods above me and the buzzards circling idly. What a beautiful place to be, I thought. What a beautiful place when you’re not all alone on a summer day when the temperature will spike to over a hundred degrees, when you don’t know how many more days your food will last you and the people you know are convinced you’re dead or missing.

I looked out over the mountains topped with piles of rocks, the great sweeping washes which held pebbles smoothed by the water which once occupied it, the sun peeking out from behind a mountain’s great shadow, the mysterious deer trails, the distant canyon wren, the scorpions lurking unseen.

And what if I was discovered? Did I really want to return to the loud and the busy, the missing socks and the late-for-school, the dogs barking all night and the sunset no longer visible?

Suddenly there was some rustling coming from a low bush beside me. I saw patches of white, then the goat came into full view. We stared at each other for a moment, each as startled as the rest, not breathing, trembling. Then it turned and bounded away from my mountain. The goat’s mountain.

No, I did not want to go back. I wanted to stay and stay forever with the cottonwoods and the prickly pear and the visible sunsets, the circling birds and the fleeing animals. I could live here forever like the Native Americans did, go out hunting with my atlatl and my spear point. I did not want to go back. I did not.

A low buzzing made itself apparent in the silence. I looked up, and saw a helicopter streaking its way above me. It slowed as it reached me, hovering above my head. Slowly, I stood up and lifted my hand. I waved, and somewhere far away, the mountain goat ran to my mountain.