Page 11 of Keeper of Talon Mountain
"The original nails are too loose now," she explains, crouching beside me to show me where the board attaches to the frame. "If we put screws in at an angle, it should hold better."
She's close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body, close enough to see the small scar on her chin and the way her breath fogs in the cold air. When she reaches across me to point out where the frame is strongest, her arm brushes mine and my pulse jumps.
"Like this?" I position the drill where she indicated, hyperaware of her proximity.
"Perfect." Her voice is softer than usual, and when I glance at her, she's looking at my hands rather than the board. "You've done this before."
"Have I?" I look down at my grip on the drill, the way I automatically adjusted my stance for leverage. "I guess some things stick even when you can't remember learning them."
"Muscle memory is powerful." She's still watching my hands, and there's something in her expression I can't read. "It's like your body knows things your mind has forgotten."
The first screw goes in clean and straight, the drill settling into my grip like it belongs there. As I work, I'm aware of Mara beside me, the way she hands me screws without being asked, how she shifts position to give me better angles without getting in my way. We work in comfortable silence, and for the first time since waking up in her guest room, I feel useful again.
"There," I say, testing the board with my foot. It doesn't budge. "That should hold."
"Thank you." Mara's smile is warm and genuine. "I've been meaning to fix that for weeks."
"What else needs doing?" The question slips out before I can stop it, revealing more about my current state of mind than I'm comfortable with. I don't want to go back inside, don't want to sit still and think about all the things I can't remember.
Mara tilts her head, studying me with those perceptive green eyes. "There are gutters on the north side that could use cleaning before the next storm. And I've been meaning to check the foundation vents—make sure they're clear of debris. But Gabe..." She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "You don't have to earn your keep here. You're recovering from serious injuries."
"I know." I gather up the tools, needing something to do with my hands. "But sitting around makes me feel useless. And you've done enough for me already."
"I've done what anyone would do."
"No." I stop and look at her directly. "You've done what you would do. And that's not the same thing."
Something passes between us in that moment—acknowledgment, maybe, or understanding. The air feels charged in a way that has nothing to do with the approaching storm. Mara's cheeks are pink from the cold, but I don't think that's the only reason.
"The firewood, then," she says finally. "But if you start feeling dizzy or your head starts hurting, you stop immediately. Doctor's orders."
"Yes, ma'am."
Her laugh is bright and unexpected. "Don't 'ma'am' me. I'm not old enough for that."
"How old are you?" The question feels too personal the moment I ask it, but I'm curious about every detail of this woman who saved my life.
"Twenty-eight." She starts toward the woodshed, her breath visible in small puffs. "You?"
I have to think about it, pulling the information from wherever basic facts about myself are stored. "Thirty-one. I think."
"You think?"
"The math works out based on my birthday, but I can't actually remember having a birthday." The admission comes out more bitter than I intended. "Kind of hard to be sure of anything when your brain's been scrambled."
Mara stops walking and turns to face me. "Your memories will come back."
"You don't know that."
"No, I don't." Her honesty is refreshing after days of well-meaning reassurances from Dr. Sage. "But even if they don't, you're still you. The things that matter—your instincts, your character, the way you move through the world—those come from something deeper than memory."
The conviction in her voice makes me want to believe her. "How can you be so sure?"
"Because I've watched you these past few days. The way you automatically check for exits when you enter a room, but also the way you worry about putting me in danger. The way you insist on helping even when you're hurt. Those aren't learned behaviors, Gabe. That's who you are."
Her words settle into the hollow space in my chest where certainty used to live. Maybe she's right. Maybe the core of who I am survived whatever happened to me.
The woodshed is organized with military precision—different types of wood sorted by size and burning characteristics, tools hung in precise order, even the kindling stacked with geometric efficiency. Looking at it, I feel a flash of... something. Recognition, maybe, or approval.
