Page 64 of Pucked Up

"Thanks."

Micah touched my shoulder once, light and sure. "You ready?"

I glanced back at the cabin—at the roof sagging under snow. It had been a hiding place, allowing for rebirth.

It had been us.

I couldn't lie.

"No," I said. "But let's go anyway."

As I turned to climb into the truck, Micah paused, then ducked back inside the cabin. Not for anything practical—we'd already loaded his bag.

He returned a moment later holding a beat-up composition notebook. The cover was scorched at the corner, water-warped and curling.

He held it out to me.

"I started writing in it after the first time I put a hole in the wall. I didn't want to talk to anyone. Figured I'd write shit down instead."

I took it, surprised by the weight of it. Inside, the first few pages were a mess—scrawled phrases, a grocery list, a record of how long it took the fire to heat the place in December.

But further in, the tone changed. Short entries. Like:

Didn't speak today. Just split wood. Left arm still sore.Saw a fox out by the ridge. Didn't shoot.Dreamed of the hit again. Woke up shaking. Didn't break anything.

One entry made my fingers tremble:

Woke up thinking I heard laughter. It was mine. Don't know why that scared me.

Then, later:

He's still here.I think he might stay.

I closed the book gently and held it firmly.

Micah turned the key, and the truck roared to life. "You don't have to read it. Just figured... if you wanted to know the version of me I didn't say out loud."

The cap in my hand felt heavier now.

"I do."

I held the notebook in my lap the whole way down the ridge.

The cabin didn't vanish in the rearview mirror. Its ghost stayed with us for miles.

Chapter nineteen

Micah

The parking lot was half-plowed, slush graying at the edges where it met the curb. I swung the truck into a space near the side entrance and cut the engine. We didn't move right away.

The heater ticked as it wound down. Somewhere across the lot, a plow scraped asphalt, metal catching on ice with a teeth-grinding shriek. Noah shifted beside me but didn't speak. His fingers drummed once against the door handle, and then he stopped.

I stared through the windshield. The building looked like a hundred other roadside hotels—fake stone pillars flanking the lobby doors, sloped roofs trying too hard to seem Alpine. One of those plastic backlit signs with a broken letter or two advertised "CLEAN ROOMS – FREE WIFI – HOT WAFFLES." It was the kind of place that smelled like mop water and lemon cleanser and hoped you'd be too tired to care.

Still, it was clean. Functional. And anonymous, standing on the outskirts of Marquette.

I killed the truck's headlights and climbed out. The dome light in the cab flickered, catching the sharp edge of Noah'scheekbone, then disappeared again when he shut his door. We didn't speak as we crossed the lot, boots crunching the half-melted ice and salt crystals beneath us.

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