Three Finger Wrong Turn -

Three miles later, the trees closed in. The GPS spun its little wheel of futility. And the road, once gravel, then mud, then just two tire tracks through wet leaves, gave out entirely.

I killed the engine. Somewhere in the dark, an owl laughed. three finger wrong turn

That’s when I saw them: three fence posts, each leaning the same direction, each marked with a single red finger of paint. A local code, maybe. Or a warning. Three miles later, the trees closed in