Page 61 of Last Hand

We approach the cabin cautiously, my gaze scanning the perimeter for any sign we’ve been followed. The forest around us has gone quiet, as if holding its breath. Only our footsteps on the brittle pine needles from trees overgrowing the driveway break the silence.

I don’t even check the handle, I just kick it in. The door crashes open, the sound thundering in the quiet night. Dust and old wood fill my lungs, and I stumble inside with Anya’s hand in mine and Mila pressed against my side. The floorboards groan beneath us and I stop, peering around.

It’s dark. Cold. The air smells stale. I fumble along the wall, muscle memory guiding my fingers to where the light switch should be. Click. Nothing. Of course. No power. Just us and whatever memories this place still holds to try to choke me.

My eyes adjust slowly to the gloom. The furniture huddles beneath yellowed sheets. Cobwebs drape from the ceiling beams. A mouse scurries across the floor, disappearing into a crack in the baseboard.

And suddenly it’s too familiar. The smell, musty wood and mold fill the air. The creak of the floorboard by the stove, the one that always gave me away when I tried to sneak food. The shadows swallowing the corners where I used to imagine monsters waited, only to learn later that the real monsters wore human faces of those supposed to protect you.

I blink once, twice, and I’m not here anymore. I’m nine years old again, and Emma’s crying beside me in her bassinet. Grandma’s voice rises like thunder from the kitchen—she’s on the phone, screaming at our father. Again. Always.

“Shh, shh, you have to be to quiet,” I whisper, rocking her bassinet as I push her bottle back into her mouth. She quiets which is another sound I dread. I hated the silence, yet it’s also what made her forget about our existence.

The closet door slams shut. Darkness. No air. No light. I wasn’t allowed to scream. Not in Grandma’s house. Not when she had that look in her eyes. The one that meant we were invisible, except when we weren’t, and then we were too visible, too loud, too much.

My chest tightens. My throat closes like someone’s shoved a fist down it. I gasp for breath, that won’t come. The cabin walls pulse inward, closing in on me from all sides. I hear the beeping. Emma’s hooked up to machines that keep her heart beating when it forgets to do it on its own. Though she grows stronger sometimes, she still needs them. I try to remind myself that Emma is now safe, that I’m not a little girl anymore and this is no longer home.

The panic doesn’t care about facts. It crushes me, nails digging into my palms, and I start to sink to the floor. No. No. No. Not now.

The room tilts and spins. My vision narrows to a pinprick, the edges black and frayed. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t feel anything except the terror clawing up my throat. My knees hit the floor, sending up a cloud of dust that only makes breathing harder.

Somewhere far away, I hear voices. Small voices. Scared voices.

“Fallon?”

“What’s happening to her?”

“Is she dying?”

I force my eyes open. Two blurry faces hover before me, eyes wide with fear. Mila’s bottom lip trembles. Anya clutches thebackpack to her chest. The sight of them pulls me back to the present, just a little. Just enough to suck in a painful breath.

“Your nose is bleeding,” Mila says.

I touch my face. My fingers come away wet and red. I stare at the blood, confused. It doesn’t seem real. Nothing does. Not the cabin. Not the blood. Not the two terrified girls looking at me like I’m their only hope when I can barely remember how to breathe.

They are real. Their fear is real. And if I don’t pull myself together, we’re all dead.

“Fallon?” Anya whispers again. Her hand reaches out, hesitant, and touches my shoulder. The contact is electric, shocking me back into my body. “Are you okay?”

No. I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay since their father took me.

None of that matters now. What matters is getting these girls somewhere safe. What matters is staying alive long enough that Leone finds us.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wiping at my nose with the back of my hand. The blood is already drying, tacky against my skin. “I’m okay.”

They don’t believe me. I can see it in the way they glance at each other, a silent conversation passing between them, though they’ve only known me for a few weeks. Smart girls. Too smart to buy my bullshit.

I pull both girls into my arms. They stiffen at first—we’re not there yet, not at the place where my touch means safety instead of more uncertainty. After a moment, they soften against me, Mila’s arms snaking around my neck, Anya’s hand clutching the back of my shirt.

“I’m okay,” I lie again, the words muffled against Mila’s hair. “I just… this place has bad memories.”

“Like nightmares?” Mila whispers.

Worse. So much worse. I don’t say that, though. Instead, I squeeze them tighter.

“Yeah, like nightmares,” I say. “We’re safe here for now, though.”

Another lie. We’re not safe anywhere. Not as long as Mikhail is hunting us. The girls need something to hold onto, and right now, hope is the only currency I have left.

---