Greykin Mountain

| 73 | Two Months Ago

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Jackson stared at his phone. "Why the hell aren't you answering?" he grumbled, staring at the text chat he had with Wilson.

          With a deep sigh, he put his phone down and picked up his lemonade, which he sipped through his straw, staring out the café window. Wilson was supposed to be there by now. In fact, he was fifteen minutes late.

          He picked up his phone and tried calling him.

          No answer. It went straight to voicemail.

          Jackson grunted irritably and tucked his phone into his pocket. He hastily finished his drink, grabbed his backpack, and left the café. Then, he made his way up the street.

          Navigating the crowds of busy shoppers and businessmen on their way to work, Jackson made his way to Wilson's apartment building.

          He headed inside and into the elevator, and when he reached the seventeenth floor, he walked down the hall to Wilson's front door.

          But when he knocked, there was no answer.

          "Wilson?" he called. "Are you in there?"

          No answer.

          Jackson tutted and reached into his pocket. He pulled out his key and unlocked the door. "Wilson?" he called, stepping into the dark hall. "Wilson?"

          He closed the door and switched the light on. The small cupboard by the intercom had a stack of unopened letters on it, and several trash bags were sitting behind the door.

          Jackson frowned as he slowly made his way towards the door at the end of the hall. The last time he'd seen Wilson was eight days ago when he came into work after working from home for a week straight. Had he not left his apartment since then?

          When he reached the end of the hall, he pushed the lounge door open...and there was his best friend. Wilson was passed out on the couch with a pizza box in his lap and a bunch of soda cans piled up on the coffee table.

          But what was on the floor was what snatched Jackson's attention. Newspaper cuttings, photographs, and files upon files. An evidence board clung to the wall between the two windows, both of which were covered by black curtains. And scattered all around the room were coffee cups, soda cans, take-out boxes, and other trash.

          Had Wilson been living like this?

          Jackson approached the couch. "Hey, Wilson? Dude," he muttered and prodded Wilson's arm.

          Wilson responded with an irritated groan and tried to swat Jackson's hand away like it was a fly.

          "Come on," Jackson grumbled, prodding him again.

          With an irritated groan, Wilson turned his head and opened his eyes. "What...what time is it?"

          Jackson glanced at his watch. "Ten-thirty. You missed breakfast."

          "Ugh, shit," he uttered, dragging his hand through his tousled, light brown hair. "Sorry, Jack. I've been neck deep in work."

          "Uh-huh..." he mumbled, glancing around the room, and when he saw a few newspaper clippings which mentioned wolf walkers, he sighed and frowned down at his friend. "Are you still looking into that wolf thing?"