Chap­ter 32 of All the Col­ors of the Dark begins with Saint embark­ing on a soli­tary jour­ney, step­ping onto the first bus of the day. The bus is filled with weary shift work­ers, their tired faces reflect­ing the strain of long hours, their heads nod­ding as they try to grab a few more moments of rest before they reach their des­ti­na­tions. The bus moves down a gray, almost life­less road that stretch­es end­less­ly before her, sur­round­ed by fields of brown wheat, which seem incom­plete and des­o­late, as if the land had been left unfin­ished by some high­er pow­er. Along the way, tow­er­ing pylons stand, their skele­tal shapes con­trast­ing with the sparse land­scape, while a fad­ed water tow­er inter­rupts the bar­ren sky, adding an eerie still­ness to the jour­ney.

When she reach­es Chester­wood, Saint dis­em­barks and trans­fers to a sec­ond bus. The new driver’s eyes remain fixed on her through the rearview mir­ror, his curios­i­ty evi­dent as she takes her seat, absorb­ing the uncer­tain­ty of what lies ahead. The land­scape grad­u­al­ly trans­forms, from flat grass­land to salt-streaked grav­el, and the bus con­tin­ues to rum­ble slow­ly, as if strug­gling to reach its des­ti­na­tion. As the bus creaks and the sus­pen­sion groans, it grad­u­al­ly slows to a halt, sig­nal­ing the end of this par­tic­u­lar jour­ney. Saint steps off, feel­ing a sense of fore­bod­ing as the driver’s gaze lingers on her before the vehi­cle dis­ap­pears into the dis­tance, leav­ing her alone in an unfa­mil­iar and unset­tling place.

Saint walks down a straight road, ref­er­enc­ing her map to ensure she is head­ed in the right direc­tion. The feel­ing of iso­la­tion wraps around her as she enters a sprawl­ing wood­land, the trees tow­er­ing over her and the air thick with the scent of damp earth. She feels as if the for­est itself is alive, watch­ing her with its silent pres­ence, urg­ing her for­ward into its depths. Every step feels weight­ed with uncer­tain­ty, but she is deter­mined to press on, her sens­es height­ened as she nav­i­gates through the dense under­growth, con­stant­ly aware of the unfa­mil­iar world around her.

After some time, Saint encoun­ters a cau­tion­ary sign that warns of a “Min­i­mum Main­te­nance Road,” remind­ing her of the dan­gers ahead. The path becomes more treach­er­ous as she con­tin­ues, with tight­ly rolled hay bales scat­tered through­out the fields, a trac­tor mired in mud, and trees grow­ing clos­er, as if the land­scape itself is try­ing to encir­cle her. The envi­ron­ment feels alive with move­ment, and the wind car­ries the scent of wild flo­ra, a stark con­trast to the heavy atmos­phere of dread that clings to her. Leaves rus­tle in the dis­tance, and pos­sum haw berries tum­ble into the gul­ly, their bright red col­or stark against the shad­owy back­drop of the for­est.

Saint pro­ceeds cau­tious­ly, splash­ing through a cold stream that cuts through the path, feel­ing the chill as it soaks her boots. In the dis­tance, deer graze lazi­ly, unaware of her pres­ence, while rac­coons scur­ry in the under­brush, and ravens cir­cle above, their black sil­hou­ettes cut­ting through the sky. The moment is almost sur­re­al, as if nature itself is indif­fer­ent to her pres­ence. The first drops of rain begin to fall, dap­pling the canopy above and cast­ing shift­ing light through the leaves, adding to the sense of iso­la­tion that con­tin­ues to press in around her.

Soon, she spots a soli­tary house, its exte­ri­or weath­ered and worn by time. The struc­ture seems aban­doned, with a cor­ru­gat­ed steel roof that looks as though it has seen bet­ter days and sev­er­al out­build­ings that appear to be on the verge of col­lapse. A rusty trac­tor lies half-sub­merged in the mud, while a decay­ing shack tells the sto­ry of neglect and dis­re­pair. How­ev­er, it’s the sight of the navy steel van parked inside the largest barn that fills her with an unmis­tak­able sense of dread, a sig­nal that some­thing is ter­ri­bly wrong.

The ten­sion in the air grows as she hears a sound in the dis­tance, her pulse quick­en­ing. She spins around, expect­ing the worst, only to spot a fox squir­rel climb­ing a beech tree. Her heart still pounds in her chest as she approach­es the porch, every step seem­ing loud­er in the silence. She knows that in her bag lie the only means of defense she has left—her sling­shot and her grandfather’s gun—objects that give her a small sense of secu­ri­ty but also remind her of the per­il she faces.