I vividly remember the night my brother Brent and I were attacked by a horrifying half-crazed mountain man. I was around 7 yrs old and that would have made Brent 11 yrs old. We lived in Grand Lake, a tourist-trap-mountain-town west of Denver. As the fall season dwindled the vacationers we adjusted to the ghost town atmosphere left behind. Living a mile out from town we felt the isolation even more.
My brother took an odd job of feeding the pets of a psychiatrist that by that time was frequently missing weekends in his summer home before he made the full relocation back down to the city for the winter. He lived about a quarter mile from us, which for a 7 yr old seemed like a Louise and Clark trek.
It was in the late afternoon that I found out that I was volunteered by my mother to assist Brent. It’s funny how I don’t remember getting a cut of the paycheck though. I’m not bitter. In fact I’m grateful that I escaped with my life that night . . .