Page 37 of Dark Roads
“People saw me at the party. They saw me in my tent in the morning. It’s fine.”
I scanned the yard, took a few breaths. It was hot behind the workshop, the morning sun bouncing off the metal. I wanted to be back in my peaceful woods, at the cool river.
“Why’s Kristin here?”
“She was scared last night. A lot of the girls are freaking out. It’s just a hookup.”
I’d never had a hookup. I’d never had sex. Amber and I had only spent five perfect hours together alone. The sum total of our relationship, but it had felt like so much more. My chest tightened, ribs pulling together as though my spine were a seam that someone had sewn closed.
A noise, the front door opening. Jonny froze. I reached for Wolf’s bandanna.
“Jonny?” Kristin. She’d come looking for him.
“Yeah, one sec!” He wrapped his arms around me—a quick, painful, bone-crushing hug. “Are you going to be okay?” he whispered into my ear. “You could stay in the shop?”
I shook my head. “I’ll come back next week.”
“You better, or I’ll go looking.” He released me, scratched Wolf’s neck, then disappeared around the corner, calling out to Kristin, “Want breakfast?”
I watched from the shadows as he walked back to his house. Maybe Kristin would be good for him. They’d eat, then spendthe day together. They could start dating and get married one day. Jonny could have kids. A regular life. I wanted that for him. He deserved to be happy.
None of those things were for me.
I insulated the cabin walls and under the floor, shoving in handfuls of grass, pieces of bark, branches, leaves, and pine needles to fill the gaps. I found a cave nearby for a root cellar, rolled a rock in front, rigged with a pole and a rope so I could drag it away when needed. Jonny canned dill pickles, tomatoes, peaches, and fish. He watched grocery sales and stocked up on dried goods. I told him he’d make a good wife someday. He told me I would make a bad husband.
One of Dad’s books suggested building a second base camp, a pit in the ground, to store survival items—water, dry food, things for starting a fire, and weapons. I chose one of the rifles and a Buck knife. That way, if someone found the cabin, I could run away.
I planned escape routes—over the rocks to the north, down to the river, or through the valley in the east. If there was a logging road where I could be trapped, I found another. I added bear bangers to the trip lines—when the line was tugged, it would pull the slide on the trigger, and release the banger. The gunshot sound would echo for miles. I looked for areas where I could make booby traps to catch anyone sneaking too close to the cabin, but I kept hitting rocks and roots and had to start over.
I didn’t go near the deep pools in the lower section of the river—where I knew the local men liked to fish—but I tracked back to where they parked their trucks and carefully raided their gear, taking things they might not notice missing rightaway. I found rope, lures, and fishing net. Sometimes food, like bags of chips, chocolate bars, or a sandwich from a cooler. Each free meal meant my supplies would last longer.
With October came the rains, and they never seemed to stop. Gray Shawl Mountain was living up to its name. The woods were dark from the low-lying clouds, the fog that floated through the trees. My clothes were always soaked and hanging by the stove. The cabin smelled like wet fur and smoke. Damp surrounded me. I carried armfuls of wood inside to dry by the fire, and every day I scavenged for more. I ran out of propane and had to cook on top of the woodstove.
I blocked my cabin from view with branches and fallen trees, forming a perimeter wall, but the wind swept it all away. Then I ran out of rope to tie the branches together. A cedar tree blew down near my dirt bike and crashed so hard the earth shook. Wolf ran off in a panic and I chased after him. Branches cracked over my head, trees swayed, and lightning flashed across the sky. When a bolt hit a tree near the river, Wolf came back—running straight at me. We hid in the cabin, under the blankets, as the world howled around us. In the morning I inspected the damage. Parts of my roof had blown away and rain had flooded the latrine.
I buried my cans and garbage in a deep pit so that no animal could dig them up. The roof sprang a leak and ruined my baking flour. My hands were always blistered. I dyed my hair twice, hacked at it with scissors. I couldn’t swim in the river, so I warmed water on the stove and took sponge baths, then wiped the mud off Wolf, combing out his snarled fur while he grumbled.
Each time I saw Jonny, he said, “I hate you being up there alone.”
“I have Wolf.” I told him everything was fine. He couldn’tknow that I wanted to struggle. I wanted it to behard. I had to exhaust myself chopping wood, hiking miles along the river, and foraging for food. I had to stay focused on keeping me and Wolf alive. Otherwise, I’d think about what Vaughn had done to Amber. Then I’d want to do something about it.
CHAPTER 14
November. Trees turned red and yellow and dropped their leaves. Frost pushed up through the dirt. The days were shorter, our long walks hindered by time and weather. I wore Dad’s bulky goose-down coat and my wool-lined boots. Even inside the cabin I had to wear layers of flannel and thermal underwear. We slept with two sleeping bags and kept the stove burning.
The woods were thick with hunters. Shots rang out in the distance. I kept Wolf close to me, calling him back the moment he wandered off. Dad used to go on long hunting trips, solo or with friends, and come back smelling like woodsmoke and beer. I was thinking of him now as Wolf and I made our way back from the river with trout hanging from my pack. I’d gutted them on shore. Two were mine, the third was Wolf’s. He’d grown bored with crayfish and had learned that if he stood near the currents, he could catch a leaping fish straight out of the white water.
Dad would’ve been impressed. I could see him giving Wolf a hearty pat on his side, roughhousing with him, and calling him a good boy. It hurt, imagining what could’ve been.
Wolf stopped, his body rigid and his ears swiveling back and forth, his nose lifted, huffing the air. He was trying to pick up the scent of something. We took a few more steps and he paused again, looking over his shoulder. I followed his gaze, saw nothing.
“What is it?” I whispered.
He stayed focused on the trail. The hackles around his neckand down his spine lifted, while a low growl rumbled deep in his throat.
I slid the safety off on my rifle, kept it by my side with my finger resting on the trigger, and stared into the woods. The birds had gone quiet and the very air seemed to have changed. Was it a deer hunter? An animal? We had gone farther down the river today. It wouldn’t be easy to run back to the cabin. The small hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
After a few beats, Wolf turned his head around and we kept walking, but he was tense, and stopped to listen a few times. I held my rifle tighter. Wolf stopped again, sniffing the ground at the side of the trail. I crouched. Paw prints. Big pads, with no claws showing. A cougar. Full-grown. It had followed our trail down to the river, but where was it now?
