Dune leaves at half past midnight. On his bike the ride takes less than ten minutes. He knows the way perfectly, even in the dark, even when the streetlamps disappear and he is left navigating by moonlight for the last quarter mile. He comes here often.

Bakers Hill is at the end of a narrow, forgotten dirt road just outside the east end of town. Its peak is the second tallest point in Hayden, but its trails are narrow and poorly kept, and the rocky summit is moss-covered and nearly impossible to find. Most people prefer to visit Hayden Summit, three miles away on the west end of town. The summit has a better view, easier to follow trails, and a waterfall.

That’s why Dune comes here. Even the thought of being that close to that much water scares him half to death.

Dune prefers it here at night, prefers the dark. Without streetlights, Dune is but a shadow against the backdrop of the pine trees that line the hill. Out here he doesn’t have to worry about being seen. Out here, Dune is free to be himself.

The path to top of Bakers Hill is gnarled and treacherous. Dune has tried to hike it by day and been lost more times than he’s reached the top. By night, the path is impossible. Fortunately, Dune doesn’t need to find the path to reach the top. He doesn’t need to walk at all.

Standing at the base of the hill, Dune takes a long, heavy breath of warm, sticky air—a blend of dust, pine, and the distant smell of paved road—then closes his eyes.

It feels like a hand grabs his navel and pulls it though his backside. Feels like the earth drops away beneath him. Feels like the sky reaches out for him, raps her arms tightly around him, and drags him forward. Eyes closed, surrounded by darkness, Dune is floating.

Body motionless, he ascends the hill as if on an invisible escalator. Grass sweeps across his ankles. Pine needles brush against his bare arms. Low bushes tickles his shins. These are the most peaceful moments Dune knows, but then—as always—everything changes. He reaches the first tree and the needles suddenly plunge deeper. A thousand cool needles piercing his skin. Like buckshot, they tear through him. The rough bark scrapes against his chest, digs deep, tears gouges into his flesh. The cambium reaches deeper still, swipes between the muscle fibers like passes of sandpaper. Until he reaches the warm, moist sapwood, that like a sponge massages away the tearing and scraping as it instead wraps itself around his heart and lungs, squeezes tight, drawing the moisture, the breath, the life from him. And for an instant, he and the tree are completely as one, his body engulfed within the sapwood and heartwood, suffocated, bathed in tree sap. Then he continues forward, hits the cambium again, the sandpaper, the scraping bark, the piercing pine needles. The pain brings tears to his eyes, makes him want to cry out into the night, makes him feel completely alive.

 And suddenly he is free of the first tree; the pressure, the pain, releases him. One final scrape of outlying needles against his skin and bone, then air flowing freely into his lungs again. And for an instant, absolute calm. A gentle night breeze. Dry leaves brushing across his toes. Until he reaches the next tree and every sensation begins again. And again. A dozen trees. A hundred. All pass through him in an excruciating, exhilarating instant, like being strangled and hugged, strangled and hugged, over and over again. And just as quickly they are gone.

The drift—that’s what he calls it—is over, and Dune has stopped moving, his feet resting on solid rock. The air is cooler here, more comfortable. And there isn’t a trace of the town in its scent. Dune opens his eyes. He is standing on the narrow rock summit covered in moss but overlooking all of Hayden. Most of the streets are deserted, though the occasional car can be seen moving up or down Main Street. Only a handful of houselights are still on.

Dune comes here at night to practice—it used to take two drifts to reach the top; now he can do it in just one—and to reflect on what he is. It reminds him of the superheroes in comic books, perched high above the city on a tall building or a church steeple, watching over everything, everyone, unseen. One day Dune imagines himself having such a perch—hopefully in a city much larger than Hayden. But for now he has Bakers Hill.

Sometimes when he’s up here, he wishes that something would happen down below. Maybe he would catch someone stealing a car or trying to break into a house. Maybe he would hear a woman scream as someone tries to run off with her purse. And Dune could drift down to them, stop the thief, return the stolen purse. Be the hero.

But that’s ridiculous. He may be able to see the whole town from up here, but he can barely make out any details. And even if he could, he can’t drift that far. Not yet.

Plus, everyone in town knows who Dune is. The moment he appeared, they would recognize him. And given his reputation, most people would rather watch their purse disappear around the corner in the hands of some punk thief than see Dune Ainsworth get his criminal paws on it.