To Save or To Steal

Hungry. I felt hungry. But not for a cheeseburger or pasta salad. I felt hungry for something more. Something more in this dull world that could be mine. I wanted to earn something, to be daring, to do something people only dream about. I was craving adrenaline. After this boring routine, it felt almost as necessary as sleep, even more so, like a release.

I stared into the depths of the forest that I drove past every day on my way home from work. Darkness encapsulated the trunks and flooded the rocky path to make itself ominous. It felt like a forest someone in a movie would get murdered in.

"Maybe I could be that someone," I thought to myself as I opened the driver's side door, "It would be the first thing that's ever been interesting about me."

Shocked by the lack of anxiety I felt, I simply began to walk the path under the stirring shadows of branches. Step after step, and with each one I felt better and more alive. Breathing in the life of the gritty soil, I felt my soul settle in my chest. It was like breathing in new life, a new start. For the first time in a while, I felt good. I felt in control, and satisfied.

I was about half way down the trail, still basking in the aurora of the trees, when I noticed something. Though the forest gave off darkness, I could spot something bright and red. Sitting on the side of the trail, a small backpack seemed to be waiting for me. It did not have my name, but there's a feeling you get when destiny calls you. I picked up the bag and sat at the bench a few yards further down the path. I noticed the bag was simple, it only had two pockets, a large and a small.

In the small pocket, I found a wrist watch, a black pen and an unopened pack of Marlboro Blue cigarettes. I unzipped the large to see a small black book, and a plastic zip-lock bag. Instinct took in as I searched for a name, though my gut told me it was left there for someone to find. No name, no wallet, no identification anywhere. I grabbed out the black book, I don't know what I had expected to find inside. Maybe a journal of someone, a letter to a friend, or notes from a school class.

Inside the front page, I looked again for a name, and I found one. Not just one, but dozens. I flipped through the pages, almost a hundred of them, and each one a list of names. Each name, crossed out in probably the same ink the pen I found carried. When I finally reached the last page, I found one name that was never striked out.

"Elizabeth Jenkins"

I tried hard to think of people I knew around town and I didn't know anyone by that name. In fact, as I searched through the names I could still read, I didn't know a single one. Strange for a book of names in a town I'd known for years. Not to have one name I'd find familiar.

I set the mysterious book beside me and pulled out the zip-lock bag. The anxiety I had lost before, was now growing inside of me. Everything came back, I didn't know what to do. 20 thousand dollars. 20 thousand dollars I just found in the forest I pass by every day. I wasn't sure whether to scream of joy or to worry about who I would be stealing this from. That's a lot of money to have lying around in a backpack. Much more unusual in a backpack that you clearly left somewhere.

Instincts told me to run, to throw it and get away as fast as I could. But instead, I pondered.

"These may be bizarre circumstances, but I've made it this far. I walked into the forest. It was fate that brought me here. It's my destiny that I find out why this is here. I can keep the money and return the backpack. Say this is how I found it. You wanted thrill. You wanted adventure. You wanted this," I repeated in my head.

Circling back home, I couldn't stop the thinking. So many thoughts. So many ideas. And the only way I got it to stop was getting home and researching Elizabeth Jenkins. The common name came up with many responses, so I had to use other names in my search for her. I finally came across an article.

"School Shooter in Leewood Stopped by High School Band"

I couldn't find the real details no matter how much I dug. I even contemplated taking the money and not giving the backpack to anyone. My conscience was too strong to let me give up on this mystery. I wish I could've stopped right there, taken the money and gotten a home or a car or anything else. But I didn't. I continued on.

The next morning, I sat racking my brain in the library across town. Article after article after article. I couldn't find any information, until I finally found one interview from 1985 with a name I recognized. Margaret Kemper. She was on the list. The first page, in fact.

"Jackson had come into the arts wing with a shotgun, and we were playing so loudly we couldn't hear the announcement. No one could come tell us because it was a risk to themselves and us to come to the room. Eventually, he found us and it was terrifying. He was waving his gun around until one of the other kids tackled him to the ground and tried to take it from him. They almost didn't get it back, but it fired and Jackson... I can't talk about this anymore."

Somber story, one that was quite strange. I quickly jogged over to the line of computers on the other end of the library with my news clippings in hand. "Jackson 1985 Leewood Shooter", I typed it in. Out came his obituary. Another heart-wrenching tale. He was survived by both parents, now divorced, and one older brother. Henry Lambou.

So I again, searched for Henry and found out that he recently got out of prison.

"I think I have your book, Henry," I whispered out loud.

I began to look up the first names on his list to see what he'd done with them, expecting the worst. Two missing, three found dead from silly things like heart attacks and strokes, just on the first page. Not a single person thought that this was strange? All of these people had been missing or dying unexpectedly and no one thought to check out Henry.

Instinct kicked in, the adrenaline was back. There was one name not crossed off that list. I needed to warn her. She needed to know. Elizabeth.

Thrusting into the driveway, I'd never knocked harder on a door in my life. An older woman came to the door, she looked to be about the right age. Somewhere in her 50s with gray, stringy, long hair covering both sides of her face. She looked surprised to see someone she hadn't seen before.

"Hi, Ms. Jenkins?"

"Who are you? What are you doing here? How do you know who I am?!" she asked aggressively.

"Ms. Jenkins, I've come to warn you. I found this backpack with this book in it," I explained through a screen door, trying to hold up the little book so she could see, "and it has your name in it. You're the only one who hasn't gone missing or been found dead. You're in danger."

"I'm not in danger, miss. You're scaring me. Please," she got quieter as she started to shut the door.

"I know about Jackson. And Henry."

She froze.

"I know about the school shooter in Leewood and I know that all of your friends from that day are gone. Please let me in so we can talk."

Without turning to look at me, she opened the door and allowed me to come in. I gave her a thankful nod and went to sit on the edge of her cream colored, cloth couch. She asked if I wanted anything to drink or eat, to which I denied, and she plopped herself down on the recliner perpendicular to me.

"You're telling me all of my friends... they're gone..."

"Yes. And I believe you're next. He has every single classmate from that day written down in this notebook. Every single name is crossed off but yours. He's coming here next."

"Well that's a pretty serious accusation. You're sure he's coming here? To kill me?"

"That's what it seems."

She put her hand to her chin and thought for a moment before stating suddenly, "I have to go to the restroom."

"Take your time," I smiled gallantly.

Her home was so well put together. Clean as can be, and still comfy. It reminded me of my own grandmother's house, decorated in their own time. Like they were all still in their 20s. Her tables were a dark wood, maybe mahogany. She had all of these trinkets lined up on her side tables, adorable little angels and rabbits and Marlboro Blue Cigarettes.

Marlboro Blue Cigarettes. Not a single thing in that house smelled like smoke. Before I knew it, I was on the ground watching her over me. I was left with only one thought, why didn't I just take the money. I was just too hungry.