Page 9 of Silver Fox Mountain Daddies

I don’t have my phone. No wallet. No cash. I don’t know these men. I don’t know this place.

Whatever independence I thought I grabbed in the dark has already turned to ash.

My stomach knots. I don’t know what I thought would happen once I left. I didn’t plan past getting away—and I didn’t really even plan that. That decision alone felt big enough.

Now it feels reckless. And stupid.

What was I thinking? Driving into the mountains with just a duffel full of clothes and a wallet full of cash I’ve slowly squirreled away…

I press my hands against my eyes.

Just breathe.

I try to count. I try to slow my heart rate. Five things I can see. Four things I can feel. Three things I can hear. Two things I can smell. One thing I can taste.

This helps my anxiety some but not enough. So, I try to pretend this porch is mine and this view is mine and the blanket wrapped around my shoulders means something more than temporary kindness.

But I can’t hold onto any of it. My throat closes, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek just to stay calm. I’m not crying. Yet. But I can feel the tears coming.

I pull my knees to my chest, tucking my chin between them. The blanket slips down my back, pooling around my hips, but I don’t move to fix it. The cold doesn’t really bother me, not compared to everything else pressing down.

The sun has cleared the ridge now. It burns through the mist creating a lovely haze.

They’re probably trying to call me. My mother. My father. Davit.

They’ll assume I’ve been taken before they ever imagine I left on my own accord. Who would believe obedient little Anoush would run? I never raised my voice. I always said yes and smiled through it. I accepted my place and my duty…at least on the surface.

The weight of that thought sits hard against my chest. Not because they’ll be worried, but because they’ll be furious. I’ve disrupted the story. Broken the script.

We don’t do that.

My breathing starts to slip off rhythm. My fingertips go numb where they grip my knees. I press my forehead to them and count, forcing the air back into my lungs one number at a time.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Then again. And again.

I don’t hear the door open behind me, but I feel a shift in the air. A quiet presence. Someone is standing behind me, waiting but not asking for anything.

I lift my head just enough to glance over. It’s the one with the steady voice. The one who pulled me out.

His light brown hair falls just past his ears, clearly overdue for a trim, with streaks of gray threading through the sides. He’s got a short beard too, neat but not fussy. He’s older, late thirties or early forties I’d guess, but he’s handsome. Really handsome, actually.

He stands with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, gaze fixed on the trees in the distance. His expression doesn’t change when I look at him. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay or if I want to talk. He doesn’t say anything at all.

He sits down on the steps leaving plenty of space between us. We both just look into the distance, not talking.

Eventually, my breathing evens out. The sharp edge of panic dulls. It doesn’t disappear, but it pulls back far enough for me to think again.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice barely audible.

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to be.”

“I…don’t know your name.”

“It’s Jonah.”

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