A touch on my leg caused me to break out of my reverie and smile down at my son Jake. He had managed to sneak up on me and was now asking to be picked up in the timeless “hands up” fashion of three-year olds.

“Hey, Buddy,” I said as I swung him up to my left hip. My right side still carried my battle-proven SIG P226 in its scratched and dinged holster. I put that gun on before I headed to the bathroom in the morning and took it off at night only just before I hit the sheets.

“Hey da,” Jake said in his limited vocabulary. Jake turned his head and looked out over the forest we called home. In another world it was a state park, covering two thousand, six hundred acres. We had eighteen waterfalls and canyons, giving us water and shelter if need be.

Jake pointed to the north. “Pretty reevah.”

“River,” I corrected automatically. I looked out at the Illinois River which formed our northern border and once again was amazed at how we managed to get to this place.

“Kitty,” Jake said and this time I looked hard. Sure enough, a large tawny paw was hanging down from a branch near the Visitor Center. Looking closely, I could see a large tail twitching slightly as flies irritated its owner.

Welcome back, old son, I thought as I watched the cougar who shared our forest lounge in the morning breeze. We discovered the cougar on our first trip out here and the best I could figure was it had escaped from a zoo or private pen. Either way, it had killed several zombies in the area and as long as it left me and mine alone, I was okay with it.