“Lock Her Away and Let Her Rot,” the Town Ordered—Until a Scarred Mountain Man Broke the Door and Heard the Truth They’d Buried for Years.

“Lock Her Away and Let Her Rot,” the Town Ordered—Until a Scarred Mountain Man Broke the Door and Heard the Truth They’d Buried for Years.

The door opened on the fourth morning.

I know because I had been counting light.

Not days.

Light.

A thin stripe came through the boards near sunrise.

Moved across the floor.

Vanished.

Then returned.

Three times.

When it returned the fourth, I had stopped pounding.

My hands had split open the second day.

By the third, thirst made rage inefficient.

My name was Eliza Wren.

I was twenty-nine years old.

Unmarried.

Large-bodied.

Owner of eighty-six acres along Little Fork Creek.

And according to my uncle, mentally unfit to control any of it.

That last part mattered because in the spring of 1887, a woman who owned good water in western Montana could become inconvenient faster than she could become respected.

The cabin where they put me had once stored blasting powder for a silver prospect.

By the time I knew it, the mine was abandoned.

Roof leaked.

One window nailed shut.

Floor dirt.

Door locked from outside.

They had left one bucket.

No food.

A cup of water.

My uncle Silas Vane told me before closing the door:

“When you’re ready to stop acting foolish, we’ll talk.”

He wanted my signature.

Not my death.

At least not first.

That distinction kept me alive.

On the fourth morning, I heard horse tack.

Then boots.

Then silence outside.

I thought Silas had returned.

I moved away from the door.

A man’s voice:

“Anyone inside?”

I said nothing.

He waited.

Then:

“I heard you.”

Still nothing.

A metal scrape.

He was working the lock.

I found a broken plank.

Held it like a club.

The door shuddered.

Once.

Twice.

The hasp ripped free.

Sunlight exploded into the room.

A man stood in it.

Tall.

Not enormous.

Strong in the economical way of people who work alone.

Gray beginning at his temples.

Dark beard.

Long coat.

Rifle slung across his back.

He saw me.

Then saw the plank.

Stopped immediately.

“Ma’am.”

“Stay there.”

He did.

That was the first thing I noticed.

Most men hear a woman say stay and interpret it as opening negotiation.

He stayed.

“Who are you?”

“Jonah Pike.”

“Why are you here?”

“Checking traps above creek.”

“You trap on Vane land?”

“No.”

“This is Vane land.”

“No.”

That interested me.

“Then whose?”

“Federal reserve easement. Old mine tract.”

I almost laughed.

Silas had hidden me on land he did not own.

Typical.

Jonah pointed to my hands.

“You need water.”

“Put it down.”

He removed canteen.

Set it halfway between us.

Stepped back.

I waited.

Then crossed.

Drank slowly.

My father taught me never gulp after dehydration.

Father had been dead eighteen months.

That memory nearly broke me.

I refused.

Jonah said:

“How long?”

“Three nights.”

“Who?”

“My uncle.”

His face changed.

Not dramatically.

“Why?”

“He wants my farm.”

“Why lock you?”

“So I sign.”

“What?”

“A conveyance.”

He nodded.

No disbelief.

No speech.

Then:

“Where do you want to go?”

That question changed everything.

Not:

Come with me.

Not:

You’re safe now.

Not:

I’ll handle it.

Where do you want to go?

I said:

“My house.”

“Is your uncle there?”

“His men are.”

“Then not good first stop.”

“Missoula.”

“Two days.”

“I know.”

“You can ride?”

“Yes.”

He looked at my legs.

They were shaking.

I hated him seeing.

He said:

“I have a camp three miles north. Food. Water. One bed.”

“Yours?”

“Yes.”

“You?”

“Floor.”

“Lock?”

“Inside.”

I stared.

He understood.

“Door opens from both sides.”

“Any other men?”

“No.”

“Anyone know you?”

“A retired surveyor half day away.”

That caught me.

“Surveyor?”

“Ephraim Cole.”

I knew the name.

Territorial work.

Boundary cases.

Honest reputation.

I lowered plank.

“Take me to your camp.”

He offered hand to mount.

I used saddle instead.

He did not insist.

His camp was a cabin built against a ridge.

Small.

Clean.

One room.

One loft.

No decorations except a faded photograph turned partly toward wall.

He brought bread.

Jerky.

Dried apples.

Broth.

I ate.

Then slept fourteen hours.

When I woke, Jonah was outside.

Not because romantic men always know what traumatized women need.

Because one-room cabins are awkward and he had work.

Good.

I washed.

Bandaged hands.

Found clean shirt left on chair.

Did not put it on.

Not mine.

He returned.

Knocked on his own door.

I almost smiled.

We sat at table.

He asked:

“You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me only what matters.”

That I appreciated.

My father, Samuel Wren, homesteaded Little Fork Creek in 1868.

He built irrigation ditches.

Planted apples.

Raised horses.

Never became rich.

But water turned land valuable.

My mother died when I was twelve.

I became his working partner.

Not assistant.

Partner.

He said so.

Put it in letters.

Recorded me on ledgers.

When he died, will left property to me outright.

No trustee.

No husband condition.

No male guardian.

Clean title.

Silas Vane was my mother’s older brother.

Owned adjoining ranch.

Four times my acreage.

But his land was dry.

His cattle needed access to Little Fork in summer.

For years, Father leased water rights to him.

After Father died, Silas offered to buy.

I refused.

He offered double.

I refused.

Then town gossip began.

Eliza Wren cannot manage.

Eliza Wren too heavy to ride boundary.

Eliza Wren emotionally disturbed by grief.

Eliza Wren wasting farm.

Eliza Wren should marry.

Eliza Wren needs family supervision.

People repeated enough.

Then paperwork appeared.

An alleged promissory note showing Father borrowed $2,000 from Silas ten years earlier and pledged water rights as security.

False.

I knew every debt.

Father kept books.

When I challenged it, county clerk said document looked valid.

Notary stamp.

Witnesses.

Silas filed claim.

Then entered farmhouse “to preserve collateral.”

His men moved in.

I went for lawyer.

Never reached town.

Two riders intercepted me.

I knew both.

Silas employees.

They said Uncle wanted talk.

I refused.

They forced me into wagon.

Then cabin.

“He needs signature because forged debt isn’t enough,” Jonah said.

“Yes.”

“What signature?”

“A quitclaim deed.”

“Why not forge that too?”

“Because local bank wants clean chain of title before financing his cattle expansion.”

Jonah nodded.

“So bank is pressure.”

“Yes.”

“Deadline?”

“Ten days.”

“What happens?”

“Loan closes.”

He leaned back.

“Then you don’t have two days.”

“No.”

He thought.

I said:

“There is a metal box under my bedroom floor.”

“What’s in it?”

“Father’s original ledgers. Tax receipts. Correspondence with Silas. Water leases. His will copy.”

“Enough to prove no debt?”

“Enough to make forgery obvious.”

“Where?”

“My house.”

“Occupied.”

“Yes.”

He looked at me.

I said:

“I’m going.”

“No.”

My jaw tightened.

He raised hand.

“Not no you don’t go.”

Good correction.

“No, we don’t walk in through front door.”

Better.

“Ephraim Cole first.”

“Why?”

“He can tell us what evidence matters before we risk house.”

That was sensible.

I hated sensible when impatient.

But accepted.

We rode to Ephraim’s place.

He was sixty-four.

Thin.

Suspicious.

Had surveying instruments hanging from rafters.

He knew my name.

“Wren girl.”

“Woman.”

He stared.

Then nodded.

“Fair.”

I explained.

He asked detailed questions.

Seal design.

Document paper.

Survey description.

Notary.

Witness names.

Then:

“Silas Vane’s alleged note uses which parcel language?”

I recited.

He frowned.

“That description didn’t exist ten years ago.”

My heart moved.

“What?”

“County resurvey changed tract numbering six years ago.”

Silence.

“If note is dated ten years ago but uses current tract description…”

“It is fraudulent.”

Not yet legally.

But technically.

Ephraim opened a drawer.

Pulled maps.

Showed.

There.

Old parcels by metes and bounds.

New sectional identifiers adopted later.

Silas’s document used new language.

Impossible date.

I laughed.

Jonah looked at me.

“Good?”

“Very.”

Ephraim said:

“Need original.”

“My box.”

“Then get it.”

Jonah said:

“Tonight.”

I said:

“I go too.”

He looked at me.

“Your house. Your box.”

Yes.

No argument.

We approached after dark.

Three men at farmhouse.

Silas not there.

We used irrigation ditch.

I knew every bend.

Entered through root cellar window I had repaired myself.

Jonah went first.

Then helped only when I asked.

Bedroom.

Third floorboard beneath wardrobe.

Box still there.

I held it against chest.

Then heard footsteps.

One man entered hallway.

Jonah reached for revolver.

I stopped him.

Pointed toward attic access.

We climbed.

Waited.

Man entered room.

Saw disturbed board.

Swore.

Now they knew.

No quiet escape.

We crossed attic rafters.

Out gable window onto shed roof.

I nearly slipped.

Jonah grabbed my forearm.

Released immediately after stable.

We dropped behind apple trees.

Gunshot.

Not at us initially.

Warning.

Then another.

We ran.

I ran poorly.

Large women can run.

We simply do not resemble poetry while doing it.

Jonah stayed beside me.

Not dragging.

Not leaving.

Reached horses.

Rode north.

By midnight, men were behind us.

We took old logging trail.

Ephraim waited.

Saw box.

Then:

“You’ve got maybe six hours before Vane realizes where you’re headed.”

“Missoula,” Jonah said.

Ephraim shook head.

“Road watched.”

I said:

“Then mountain route.”

He stared at me.

“Three days.”

“We have ten-day bank deadline.”

“Not if he accelerates.”

Silas would.

We all knew.

Ephraim said:

“I can certify documents tomorrow.”

“No tomorrow,” I said.

“Tonight.”

He looked at my hands.

Then papers.

Then started lamp.

We worked until dawn.

Father’s ledger showed every transaction.

No loan.

More.

A letter from Silas six years earlier:

Samuel, if you will not sell the creek frontage, continue the summer lease at present rate.

That letter alone contradicted claim that he already owned secured rights.

Father’s tax receipts showed no encumbrance.

Will clean.

Then Ephraim examined alleged note copy I had carried from clerk weeks earlier.

Paper modern.

Parcel language modern.

Notary seal?

Wrong.

The notary named Joseph Bell died eleven months before alleged signing date.

I stared.

“How did clerk accept this?”

Ephraim said:

“Either incompetent.”

Jonah:

“Or paid.”

I said:

“Both possible.”

By sunrise, we had an affidavit.

Technical discrepancies.

Map chronology.

Seal issue.

Dead notary.

Ledger references.

Copies.

Three sets.

One with Ephraim.

One mine.

One Jonah.

Then I made another decision.

“I go to Missoula alone.”

Both men objected.

Interesting.

I held up hand.

“Listen.”

They did.

“Silas expects Jonah beside me.”

“Yes.”

“He knows Ephraim now?”

“Likely.”

“Then three people traveling together are easy target.”

Ephraim frowned.

“What are you proposing?”

“Split.”

I ride stage route disguised among passengers from Bitterroot junction.

Jonah takes mountain trail with one copy.

Ephraim sends certified packet by postal rider to federal office.

Three routes.

Three copies.

Silas cannot stop all without exposing himself.

Jonah stared at me.

“Dangerous.”

“Yes.”

“You could be taken.”

“Yes.”

“I dislike it.”

“So do I.”

Silence.

Then:

“It’s your case.”

That was when I started trusting him.

Not because he broke door.

Because he let me make a dangerous decision he did not like.

We split.

I reached Missoula first.

Barely.

Two of Silas’s men boarded stage at Hamilton.

They did not recognize me because Mrs. Avery at junction gave me bonnet, black dress, and veil and told them I was her widowed cousin.

Women’s networks have saved more lives than historians count.

At federal marshal office, I asked for Marshal David Mercer.

He was unavailable.

Deputy suggested appointment.

I placed forged deed copy and dead notary death notice on desk.

“I was imprisoned three days to force signature on land currently subject to fraudulent instrument, and the bank loan based on that instrument closes within one week.”

Appointment became immediate.

I gave statement.

Alone.

No Jonah.

No Ephraim.

My voice.

My facts.

Marshal Mercer listened.

Then asked:

“Where is Mr. Pike?”

“Somewhere in mountains carrying second copy.”

“You trust him?”

“Enough to carry paper.”

Good answer.

Federal office telegraphed county recorder and bank.

TEMPORARY HOLD ON ANY TRANSACTION INVOLVING WREN LITTLE FORK PROPERTY PENDING FRAUD REVIEW.

There.

Silas’s deadline died before he knew door had opened.

Part 2:

Silas came to Missoula two days later.

With lawyer.

Not gunmen.

Men become civilized when federal stationery appears.

He claimed misunderstanding.

Family concern.

A distressed niece.

Temporary protective confinement after she became “hysterical.”

I asked Marshal Mercer:

“May I respond?”

“Yes.”

I said:

“I was given no food or water for three days.”

Silas’s lawyer objected.

Not courtroom.

No matter.

Silas said:

“She exaggerates.”

Then Jonah arrived.

Dusty.

Tired.

Carrying broken padlock.

He placed it on desk.

I almost laughed.

“Found that on outside of cabin,” he said.

Marshal looked.

Silas:

“For her protection.”

Jonah said nothing.

Excellent.

Then Ephraim’s certified packet arrived.

Third copy.

Redundancy became credibility.

Investigation widened.

County clerk was questioned.

He admitted Silas paid “expediting fees.”

Notary identity impossible.

One witness signature belonged to a man living in Idaho who testified he had never seen note.

Second witness was Silas employee.

He eventually admitted signing blank paper.

The bank denied knowledge.

Probably true.

They froze loan.

Silas’s entire cattle expansion collapsed.

Then farmhouse confinement became criminal matter.

The two men who took me were arrested.

One talked.

Silas ordered:

Keep her somewhere quiet until she gets sensible.

He insisted that meant lawful family intervention.

Marshal Mercer asked:

“Under what authority?”

No answer.

People with local power often discover federal questions painfully specific.

I returned to Little Fork under marshal escort.

Not Jonah’s escort.

Important.

My house had been damaged.

Drawers emptied.

Fence cut.

Two cows gone.

Apple trees intact.

I stood in kitchen.

Cried.

Not because weak.

Because home remembers violation.

Jonah waited on porch.

Did not enter until I asked.

I appreciated that more than flowers.

The case took months.

Not days.

Fraud.

False imprisonment.

Witness intimidation.

Conspiracy.

Silas retained good lawyers.

Trial moved outside county due influence.

I testified.

His counsel used my body.

Not literally.

Socially.

Asked whether farm labor exhausted me.

Whether I could mount horse unaided.

Whether grief caused emotional episodes.

Whether I had been known to become angry.

I said:

“Yes.”

Attorney smiled.

“Frequently?”

“When people steal my property.”

Judge suppressed laughter.

Then:

“Would you describe yourself as physically capable?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you claim two men forced you into wagon?”

“Physical capability does not make two armed men imaginary.”

That line reached newspaper.

I hated fame.

Loved accuracy.

They brought town witnesses.

Some said Silas only wanted what was best.

I asked my lawyer to cross-examine no character statements unless factual.

We did not need popularity.

Documents.

Dates.

Bank records.

Seal.

Dead notary.

Employee testimony.

Padlock.

My injuries.

Cabin.

Silas convicted of conspiracy to commit land fraud and unlawful confinement.

Sentence five years.

Others lesser.

County clerk removed.

Sheriff not charged.

But lost election.

He had ignored my earlier complaint.

He later apologized.

I said:

“You believed him.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He was established.”

“So was I.”

Silence.

Exactly.

Little Fork returned fully to me.

Clean title.

Then something unexpected.

I did not want to live there.

Not immediately.

Everyone assumed victory meant returning.

I tried.

Three weeks.

Every horse sound at night woke me.

Every knock made throat close.

Farmhouse felt watched.

That angered me.

I owned land.

Yet fear occupied house.

I rented place to neighboring family for six months.

Moved to Missoula.

People called that surrender.

Idiots.

Ownership includes right not to sleep somewhere.

I opened bookkeeping office.

My father had taught accounts.

I helped small landowners organize titles.

Especially widows.

Women.

Immigrants.

People local banks dismissed.

Called business Wren Land & Ledger.

Jonah returned mountains.

No romantic declaration.

Good.

He wrote once monthly.

Short letters.

Weather.

Trap prices.

Ephraim complaining.

No “I miss you.”

I missed him anyway.

Six months became nine.

Then I returned Little Fork.

By choice.

Changed locks.

Repainted kitchen.

Moved wardrobe over different floorboard.

Not hiding papers anymore.

Installed document safe.

Jonah visited after two weeks.

Stayed in bunkhouse.

I said:

“There’s guest room.”

He said:

“Didn’t know invitation included.”

“It does.”

He moved.

Separate.

We became friends without emergency.

That was harder.

He had habits.

Bad ones.

Disappeared for days without telling.

I hated.

He said:

“I’ve lived alone fifteen years.”

I said:

“Then continue if communication injures you.”

He improved.

I overworked.

Refused help.

He called it independence theater.

I became furious.

Then realized partly correct.

Apologized next day.

He said:

“You do know how.”

“Rare skill.”

Romance took two years.

I was thirty-two when first kiss happened.

Not in rescue cabin.

Not after gunfight.

Kitchen.

After argument over apple irrigation.

He asked.

I said yes.

Then laughed because his beard scratched.

He looked offended.

We tried again.

Better.

No marriage immediately.

I owned Little Fork.

He owned cabin and trapping rights.

We had separate incomes.

He started guiding survey crews because mountains knew him.

I expanded ledger business.

Then Silas released early after four years.

People expected revenge.

He came to Little Fork.

Alone.

I met him at gate.

Jonah stayed inside.

Because I asked.

Silas looked older.

He said:

“You ruined me.”

“No.”

“You sent me prison.”

“No.”

“You testified.”

“Yes.”

“Same thing.”

“No.”

He stared.

“I was trying to keep family land together.”

“My land.”

“Your mother would have wanted—”

“Do not use dead women as forged signatures.”

He flinched.

Good.

Then:

“I was afraid.”

That surprised me.

“Of what?”

“Losing everything.”

“Your ranch?”

“Yes.”

“Then you tried to take mine.”

He looked down.

“That is what frightened people with power do.”

I understood.

Did not excuse.

He asked forgiveness.

I said:

“No.”

People later found that cruel.

Forgiveness is not tax owed on repentance.

Years later, I changed answer.

Privately.

After he died.

No need give him absolution as reward.

Part 3:

Jonah proposed when I was thirty-five.

I said:

“Terms first.”

He laughed.

Of course.

Separate property.

Little Fork mine.

Mountain cabin his.

No unilateral debt.

No spouse signing for other.

No automatic business interest.

No expectation I leave work.

No expectation he leave mountains.

Private rooms available.

No entering locked office without permission.

No phrase:

I saved you.

No phrase:

You would be dead without me.

He added:

No phrase:

I don’t need anyone.

I objected.

He said:

“You use it as weapon.”

Fair.

Changed wording:

Neither spouse shall threaten emotional withdrawal solely to avoid ordinary dependence.

Very legal.

Very us.

We married.

Ephraim witness.

Marshal Mercer attended.

My lawyer officiated after becoming justice of peace.

No uncle.

No town performance.

I kept Wren.

Jonah remained Pike.

Farm became Wren Creek Company.

He refused name change to include Pike.

“Your father built it.”

I said:

“We build now.”

He said:

“Then add later if business changes.”

Good.

We never did.

Little Fork became known for apples, horses, and land-record workshops.

Yes.

Workshops.

Every spring, I invited women from valley.

Brought clerks.

Lawyers.

Surveyors.

Taught:

What is deed?

What is mortgage?

What is lien?

What is easement?

Who can notarize?

What does witness prove?

How do you verify seal?

Where keep copies?

What if local official refuses?

People laughed at first.

Then two widows stopped fraudulent claims using knowledge.

Laughter ended.

Ephraim taught survey description.

Jonah taught route safety and how to transport copies separately.

I taught rule:

Never keep only original evidence in house someone wants.

We created three-copy custom.

Home.

Attorney.

Off-site trusted custodian.

Later banks copied.

Children attended too.

Girls especially.

One asked:

“Why would family lie?”

I answered:

“Because family members are people, and people can love you and still want something that belongs to you.”

Hard lesson.

Necessary.

Jonah and I had no biological children.

We never pursued.

Not important.

We did become guardians later to two teenagers.

Sisters.

Their mother died.

Father already dead.

They had land.

Of course.

Names:

May and Alice Turner.

We did not adopt immediately.

They retained surname.

Independent lawyer reviewed everything.

May eventually became surveyor.

Alice became doctor.

Neither owed us grandchildren.

Both produced them anyway.

Many.

Noisy.

Jonah pretended hate noise.

Bad actor.

The old powder cabin remained for years.

I avoided road.

Then one day at fifty, I rode there.

Alone.

Door gone.

Roof worse.

I entered.

Dirt floor.

Wall where I sat.

Old blood long vanished.

I expected revelation.

None.

Just rotten building.

I laughed.

Then took broken board.

Brought home.

Not as trauma shrine.

Firewood.

Jonah asked:

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

We burned it that winter.

Ordinary warmth from old prison.

That felt right.

Silas’s ranch eventually sold.

Part went to families.

Part grazing company.

No monument.

No curse.

Just land changing hands.

County records kept his fraud case.

That mattered more.

Years later, Montana lawyers cited it in disputes over forged conveyances and coercive signatures.

My role became exaggerated.

People said I exposed ring.

I did not.

Many people did.

Mountain man rescue made better headline.

I disliked that.

At sixty-eight, newspaper interviewed.

Young reporter asked:

“Would you say Mr. Pike saved your life?”

I said:

“Yes.”

He brightened.

Then:

“And no.”

Confused.

“He opened door.”

“Yes.”

“Without him, you may have died?”

“Yes.”

“Then why no?”

“Because people use rescue to swallow rest of story.”

I explained.

Jonah opened physical door.

I chose destination.

Ephraim validated records.

Mrs. Avery hid me.

Marshal listened.

Witnesses testified.

Lawyer argued.

Jury convicted.

I rebuilt farm.

I built business.

I chose Jonah later.

Those are different verbs.

Reporter wrote mostly right.

Headline still said:

MOUNTAIN MAN SAVED IMPRISONED HEIRESS.

You cannot defeat headlines entirely.

Jonah died at seventy-six.

Lung infection.

Winter.

I sat beside him.

He asked:

“Door unlocked?”

I smiled.

“Yes.”

Always his question.

When we traveled, he checked hotel locks from inside.

Never admitted why.

His epitaph:

JONAH PIKE
MOUNTAIN GUIDE. SURVEY HAND. HUSBAND.
HE BROKE ONE LOCK BECAUSE SOMEONE WAS BEHIND IT.
THEN SPENT FORTY YEARS LEARNING THAT AN OPEN DOOR IS ONLY USEFUL IF THE PERSON INSIDE CHOOSES THE ROAD.

I lived ten more years.

Wren Land & Ledger became nonprofit office.

Helped landowners challenge fraudulent liens.

Paid independent document review for widows and minors.

Archive kept my father’s ledger.

Forged note.

Marshal hold order.

Marriage contract.

And the broken padlock Jonah carried to Missoula.

Plaque:

THIS LOCK IS NOT IMPORTANT BECAUSE A MAN BROKE IT.

IT IS IMPORTANT BECAUSE SOMEONE HAD PUT IT THERE BELIEVING A WOMAN’S RESISTANCE WOULD EVENTUALLY RUN OUT.

IT DID NOT.

My stone:

ELIZA WREN
LANDOWNER. ACCOUNTANT. WIFE. GUARDIAN. WITNESS.
THEY LOCKED HER AWAY TO MAKE HER SIGN.
SHE ANSWERED BY SPENDING HER LIFE TEACHING PEOPLE TO READ BEFORE THEY DID.

Students still hear simplified story.

Cruel uncle.

Locked woman.

Mountain man.

Broken door.

Forged deed.

Justice.

Love.

All true.

But order matters.

I did not fall in love with Jonah because he opened door.

I was dehydrated.

Terrified.

Dependent.

That is not fair ground for romance.

He gave water.

Distance.

A question.

Where do you want to go?

Then accepted answer.

Later, when I disagreed with his plan, he let mine stand.

When I wanted go Missoula separately, he disliked and accepted.

When I left Little Fork, he did not tell me victory required staying.

When we courted, I had house, land, business, bank account, friends, and an unlocked door.

Only then could staying with him mean what people wanted it to mean.

Choice.

That became rule of my life.

A person rescued from a cage is not automatically free.

Freedom begins when the next door belongs to them.

And the next.

And the next.

Until one day there are enough doors that nobody else gets to decide which one they must walk through.