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wrapped scarves around our necks. Erica dressed Little Erica in a sweater that matched hers and wrapped a bandanna around the doll’s neck.
    The wind ripped leaves from the trees and filled the air with whirling gold. Dad tried to capture the last of the foliage, but the color had peaked and many of the trees were bare.
    His camera swinging from its strap, his hiking stick in hand, Dad chose a trail that led uphill, winding around boulders and outcrops of trees. After a while we came to a steep drop-off on one side of the trail, not exactly a cliff, but high enough to do serious harm, maybe even kill you, if you fell. Just looking down, down, down at the rocks far below was enough to make me step back toward the safe side of the trail, far from the edge.
    Erica froze and clung to Dad’s hand. “I’m scared of high places,” she whispered. “Can we turn around and go home now?”
    Leaving Dad to convince Erica that he wouldn’t let her fall, I ran ahead, bounding from rock to rock. If I’d been looking where I was going, I might not have tripped on a tangle of roots half hidden in the fallen leaves, but the next thing I knew, I was flat on the ground on my belly. Struggling to get my breath, I looked through the weeds at a chimney pointing like a finger at the sky.
    Scrambling to my feet, I followed an overgrown path to the ruins of an old log cabin that was slowly sinking into the earth. Overgrown with dying vines, shielded by brambles, its walls tilted and sagged. Part of the roof had collapsed under the weight of a fallen tree, but the stone chimney was straight and true.
    â€œDad, Erica!” I yelled. “There’s an old cabin here!”
    They made their way through the weeds and undergrowth, Dad leading and Erica following, clutching her doll as if she might be in danger.
    We walked around the cabin. Dad took dozens of pictures from every possible angle. He even got down on his stomach to get a different perspective.
    â€œCan we go inside?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t see why not.” Laughing, Dad knocked at the door. “Just in case.”
    When he pushed the door open, a buzzard flew out. Dad and I leaped out of its way, and Erica screamed.
    â€œIt’s just a big bird,” Dad told her. “A black buzzard. Nothing to be scared of.”
    The buzzard landed on a limb and hunched there, staring at us in disapproval. Suddenly he lifted his wings and took off, vanishing into the sky like a streak of black feathers shot from a bow.
    â€œQuoth the buzzard, ‘Nevermore,’” Dad said.
    Erica looked worried. “Can we go home now?”
    â€œDon’t you want to go inside?” Dad asked.
    â€œNo.” She peered into the darkness beyond the door. “Somebody might be hiding in there.”
    â€œOh, come on.” Dad took her hand and led her through the doorway, which was so low he had to stoop to go through it, and I followed close behind.
    A little daylight filtered through the vines covering the windows, layers and layers of them twisted together like tangled ropes. The dirt floor reeked of mold. The air smelled of rot and decay and old ashes. I shivered in the damp cold. Suddenly I wanted to go back outside where the sun shone and the air was fresh.
    â€œIt smells bad in here,” Erica whispered. “Please, Daddy, can we go home?”
    â€œLet’s explore first,” Dad said. “You never know what you might find in an old place like this.”
    Although I would never have admitted it, I didn’t want to be inside the cabin any more than Erica did. Cobwebs hung like curtains from the rafters; things scuttled in the shadows—mice, insects, I guessed. Weird funguses grew in the dampness. What if we dislodged something and the rest of the roof caved in? We’d be buried alive.
    While Erica waited in the doorway, I took a few steps into the cabin. Dad unearthed old bottles, broken pottery, chipped