Page 2 of Grizzly's Grump
A tiny water closet wedges behind the passenger seat—just enough space to do what needs doing—and on the backside of the truck, there’s an outdoor hookup I rigged myself for a makeshift shower. I screw on the hose, snap a half-circle rod into place, and hang the vintage floral curtain I found in a thrift store in Portland. It flutters in the breeze like a little flag of survival.
It’s not much, but it’s mine.
The air here in Redwood Rise is different. Cooler. Heavy with damp earth and redwoods, which kind of figures given the name of the town. There's a stillness here that presses in at the edges. Alive, but hushed. Something stirs beneath it—not loud, not obvious. Just... a subtle pressure, like standing on the edge of a question the earth hasn’t finished asking. A flicker of something I can’t name curling through the fog and settling deep in my chest.
Maybe it’s just adrenaline. Or exhaustion. Or the ache of hope starting to breathe again.
Then, I start the truck and follow the mist into the trees.
Not because I’m brave, but because I’m done looking back.
And deep down, I know something in these woods has been waiting—watching—for me all along.
CHAPTER 1
CILLA
The brakes squeal as I guideSweet on Youinto a gravel pull-off at the edge of Main Street, right where the forest starts to thicken again. A weathered wooden sign saysWorkshop Rowin faded white letters, dangling from rusted hooks. Behind it looms a long stretch of outbuildings—barns turned into garages, storage sheds, and one that looks like it might’ve once been a sawmill. The entire lane smells like cedar, iron filings, and quiet resentment.
Perfect.
I ease the truck into the spot closest to the tree line and cut the engine. She shudders but settles. For now.
“Still got it, baby,” I whisper, patting the dash like we didn’t just nearly die on the last incline.
Outside the town is mist-kissed and hushed, like it’s still waking up—or watching me too closely to speak. There’s a strange energy to it—something deeper than the fog or the old buildings. Like the place is waiting for me to prove myself.
A strange pressure hums behind my ribs. Not pain, exactly—more like something tuning itself to my frequency. Quiet but undeniable. Like I’m standing in the exact spot I was meant to find without knowing why.
I grab my chalkboard menu from behind the counter and step into the chill. It's colder than it has any right to be. I know it's the Northern California Coastal Range, not Malibu, but still—it's California. I should not be able to see my breath at this hour of the day.
The fog—fog? seriously? It's not San Francisco, for God's sake—curls around my ankles as I set the sandwich board sign out beside the truck: Cinnamon Rolls, Cupcakes, Cookies. Coffee—Strong Enough to Raise the Dead. It's done in a scrolly script of pink, blue and white—gotta match the color scheme ofSweet On You, a vintage pink truck with a pull-out blue and white stripe awning.
If that doesn’t get someone’s attention, they're either blind or I’m not trying hard enough.
I climb back inside, tie my apron, crank open the side and flick on the string of lights inside the truck. It’s not flashy, but it’s warm. Cozy and mine.
The first twenty minutes pass in silence.
Then thirty.
Still no one.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, tapping my fingers against my elbow. I can hear the tick of the cooling engine, the soft hum of the refrigerator, the faint creak of trees shifting in the mist. Everything else? Dead quiet.
The kind of quiet that settles deep in your bones, makes you question your decisions, your timing—hell, your entire life trajectory. I glance out again. Not a soul.
Redwood Rise had seemed like a fairytale when I first saw it on that faded postcard—an old linen print with hand-painted trees, a winding road vanishing into golden mist, and the wordsWelcome to Redwood Risecurling beneath in cheerful script. It had been tucked inside a vintage cookbook from the1950s. Misty trees, winding lanes, the promise of fresh starts and sweet peace.
But standing here now, with fog clinging to everything, cold nipping at my fingers, and not even a curious neighbor to peer through a curtain… it feels more like a test I didn’t study for.
I try not to dwell on the way it ended. The betrayal. The paperwork. The fallout. It’s all behind me now—literally. This food truck isn’t just my livelihood. It’s my last lifeline.
I squint at the map app on my phone, not because I’m lost—though I might as well be—but to reassure myself this place is real. That I haven’t made a colossal mistake. I don't have much of a choice as I'm not sure the food truck could make it to the end of Main Street, much less up the next mountain.
The screen buffer spins. No signal.
Of course.
