Dave Ruben's flight arrived twenty five minutes late. He grabbed his bag, paid his parking fee and hit I-19 north to the Emigrant Canyon Road, stopping at the State Liquor Store for a 12 pack of PBR.As he started up the canyon, his headlights reflecting off of the cracked walls of the canyon, he dialed Sheila. She answered "Dave!" but after he said "how are you coping?" there was dead silence, the cell indicating search for signal. As he powered the Porsche up the road, he stripped his tie off with his left hand.

"Dave! Dave?" she said, but she had dropped the call. She tried repeatedly, getting David's voice mail. She had wanted badly to talk to him about what Michael had told her. Late that afternoon, Michael had finally returned her call.
"Michael, how...how are you?" she had said.
He had finally replied "I know about you and Dave Ruben."
"What do you mean?"
"Sheila, for God's sake just tell the truth, if you ever loved me. You and Dave are having an affair, and have been for quite a while. Stop the god damned lying."
"What is it you think you know, Michael, because..."
"Sheila. He told me. David admitted it. He said he couldn't live with himself, and he had to tell me."
Sheila was stunned, silent. "Please, Sheila. Just pay me the respect of telling me the truth."
"Mike...I'm sorry. But its over with Dave."
"You got that right, " he had said, then hung up.

At the Beaver Creek Campground, David turned in, parking his car behind Michael's. Dave picked up the beer and strode down the path. He could see that Michael had already gotten a campfire going, a fire bright enough to render everything outside its orb of light into near blackness. "Michael!" he called out. "I'm here with the beer Mikey!"
From somewhere ahead he heard the muted strains of Mike's guitar, and yet, as he approached the campfire he seemed to see the guitar leaning solitary against a stack of wood near the fire.
Dave peeled a beer from the twelve pack and popped the top. He took a gulp and said "yo, Mikey!" But there was no response. He saw the design on the guitar that Sheila had described to him and he approached it. That was when he realized that the music was indeed coming from the motionless guitar. "Christ" he said aloud. Sheila had been right.
At that moment, he thought he heard a crunch of rock from behind him. But he never had the chance to turn around before a shape emerged from the darkness, and he found himself struggling for a breath, watching the campfire encompass his vision, until at last it shrank to the size of a match flame, and then winked out.