by Morgan Rice
Today is less forgiving than most. The wind whips relentlessly, brushing clumps of snow off the heavy pine and right into my face as I hike straight up the mountain face. My feet, crammed into hiking boots a size too small, disappear in the six inches of snow. I slip and slide, struggling to find my footing. The wind comes in gusts, so cold it takes my breath away. I feel as if I’m walking into a living snow globe.
Bree tells me it’s December. She likes to count down the days to Christmas, scratching off the numbers each day on an old calendar she found. She does it with such enthusiasm, I can’t bring myself to tell her we’re nowhere near December. I won’t tell her that her calendar is three years old, or that we’ll never get a new one, because they stopped making them the day the world ended. I won’t deny her her fantasy. That’s what big sisters are for.
Bree clings to her beliefs anyway, and she’s always believed that snow means December, and even if I told her, I doubt it would change her mind. That’s a ten-year-old for you.
What Bree refuses to see is that winter comes early up here. We’re high up in the Catskills, and here, there’s a different sense of time, a different turn to the seasons. Here, three hours north of what-was-once New York City, the leaves drop by the end of August, scattering across mountain ranges that stretch as far as the eye can see.
Our calendar was current once. When we first arrived, three years ago, I remember seeing the first snow and then checking it in disbelief. I couldn’t understand how the page read October. I assumed such early snow was a freak. But I soon learned it wasn’t. These mountains are just high enough, just cold enough, for winter to cannibalize Fall.
If Bree would just flip back the calendar, she’d see it right there, the old year, in big, tacky letters: 2117. Obviously, three years old. I tell myself she’s just too caught up in her excitement to check closely. This is what I hope. But lately, a part of me is beginning to suspect that she really knows, that she’s just chosen to lose herself in fantasy. I can’t blame her.
Of course, we haven’t had a working calendar for years. Or cell phone, or computer, or TV, or radio, or internet, or technology of any kind—not to mention electricity, or running water. Yet somehow, we’ve managed to make it, just the two of us, for three years like this. The summers have been tolerable, with fewer hungry days. We can at least fish then, and the mountain creeks always seemed to carry salmon. There are also berries, and even a few wild apple and pear orchards that still, after all this time, bear fruit. Once in a while, we even manage to catch a rabbit.
But the winters are intolerable. Everything is frozen, or dead, and each year I am certain that we will not make it. And this has been the worst winter of all. I keep telling myself that things will turn around; but it’s been days now without a decent meal, and Winter has just begun. We are both weak from hunger, and now, Bree is also sick. It doesn’t bode well.
As I trudge up the mountain face, retracing the same luckless steps I took yesterday, searching for our next meal, I am beginning to feel our luck has run out. It is only the thought of Bree lying there, waiting at home, that urges me forward. I stop pitying myself and instead hold her face in my mind. I know I can’t find her medicine, but I am hoping it’s just a passing fever, and that a good meal and some warmth is all she needs. What she really needs is a fire. I never light fires in our fireplace anymore, as it’s too dangerous: I can’t risk the smoke, the smell, tipping off a slaverunner to our location. But tonight I will surprise her, and just for a little while, take the chance. Bree lives for fires, and it will lift her spirits. And if I can just find a meal to complement it—even something as small as a rabbit—it will complete her recovery. Not just physically. I’ve noticed her starting to lose hope these last few days—I can see it in her eyes—and I need her to stay strong. I refuse to sit back and watch her slip away, like Mom did.
A new gust of wind slaps me in the face, and this one is so long and vicious I need to lower my head and wait until it passes. The wind roars in my ears, and I would do anything for a real winter coat. I wear only a worn hoodie, one I found years ago by the side of the road. I think it was a boy’s, but that’s good, because the sleeves are long enough to cover my hands and almost double as gloves. At five six I’m not exactly short, so whoever owned this must have been tall. Sometimes I wonder if he’d care that I’m wearing his clothing. But then I realize he’s probably dead. Just like everybody else.
My pants aren’t much better: I still wear the same pair of jeans, I’m embarrassed to mote, that I’ve had on since we escaped the city all those years ago. If there’s one thing I regret, it’s leaving so hastily. I guess I’d assumed I’d find some clothes up here, that maybe a clothing store would still be open somewhere, or even a salvation army. That was stupid of me: of course, all the clothing stores had long ago been looted. It was as if, overnight, the world went from a place of plenty to a place of scarcity. I’d managed to find a few pieces of clothing scattered in drawers in my Dad’s house. These I gave to Bree. I was happy that at least some of his clothes, like his thermals and socks, could keep her warm.
The wind finally stops, and I raise my head and hurry straight up before it can pick up again, forcing myself up at double speed, until I reach the plateau.
I reach the top, breathing hard, my legs on fire, and slowly look around. The trees are more sparse up here and in the distance is a small mountain lake. It’s frozen, like all the others, and the sun glares off of it with enough intensity to make me squint.
I immediately look over at my fishing rod, the one I’d left the day before, wedged between two boulders. It sticks out over the lake, a long piece of string dangling from it into a small hole in the ice. If the rod is bent, it means Bree and I will have dinner tonight. If not, I’ll know it didn’t work—again. I hurry between a cluster of trees, through the snow, and get a good look.
It’s straight. Of course.
My heart sinks. I debate walking out onto the ice, using my small axe to chop a hole elsewhere. But I already know it won’t make a difference. The problem is not its position—the problem is this lake. The ground is too frozen for me to dig up worms, and I don’t even know where to look for them. I’m not a natural hunter, or trapper. If I knew I’d end up where I am now, I would have devoted my entire childhood to outward bound, to survival techniques. But now I find myself useless in most everything. I don’t know how to set traps, and my fishing lines have rarely caught a thing.
Being my father’s daughter, a Marine’s daughter, the one thing that I am good at— knowing how to fight—is useless up here. If I am helpless against the animal kingdom, at least I can handle myself against the two-legged ones. From the time I was young, like it or not, Dad insisted I be his daughter—a Marine’s daughter, and proud of it. He also wanted me to be the son he never had. He enrolled me in boxing, wrestling, mixed-martial arts…there were endless lessons on how to use a knife, how to fire a gun, how to find pressure points, how to fight dirty. Most of all, he insisted I be tough, that I never show fear, and that I never cry.
Ironically, I have never had a chance to use a single thing he taught me, and it all couldn’t be more useless up here: there is not another person in sight. What I really need is to know how to find food—not to know how to kick someone. And if I do ever run into another person, I’m not going to be flipping him, but asking for help.
I think hard and recall that there is another lake up here somewhere, a smaller one; I saw it once, one summer when I was adventurous and hiked further up the mountain. It’s a steep quarter mile, and I haven’t tried to go up there since.
I look up and sigh. The sun is already beginning to set, a morose winter sunset cast in a reddish hue, and I’m already weak, tired and frozen. It will take most of what I’ve got just to make it back down the mountain. The last thing I want is to hike further up. But a small voice inside me urges me to keep climbing. The more time I spend alone these days, the stronger Dad’s voice is becoming in my head. I resent it, and I want to
block it out, but somehow, I can’t.
Stop whining and keep pushing, Moore!
Dad always liked to call me by my last name. Moore. It annoyed me, but he didn’t care.
I know that if I go back now, Bree will have nothing to eat tonight. That lake up there is the best I can come up with, our only other source of food. I also want Bree to have a fire, and all the wood down here is soaked. Up there, where the wind is stronger, I might find wood dry enough for kindling. I take one more look straight up the mountain, and decide to go for it. I lower my head, and begin the hike, taking my rod with me.
Each step is painful, a million sharp needles pulsing in my thighs, icy air piercing my lungs. The wind picks up and the snow whips, like sandpaper on my face. A bird caws way up high, as if mocking me. Just when I feel I can’t take one more step, I reach the next plateau.
This one, so high up, is different than all the others: it is so densely packed with pine trees, it’s hard to see more than ten feet. The sky is shut out under their huge canopy, and the snow is covered with their green needles. The huge tree trunks manage to shut out the wind, too. I feel like I’ve entered a small private kingdom, hidden from the rest of the world.
I stop and turn, taking in the vista: the view is amazing. I’d always thought we had a great view from Dad’s house, halfway up the mountain, but from here, up top, it is spectacular. Mountain peaks soar in every direction, and beyond them, in the distance, I can even see the Hudson River, sparkling. I also see the winding roads that cut their way through the mountain, remarkably intact. Probably because so few people ever come up here. I’ve never, in fact, seen a car, or any other vehicle. Despite the snow, the roads are remarkably clear; the steep, angular roads, basking in the sun, lend themselves perfectly to drainage, and amazingly, much of the snow has melted off.
I am struck by a pang of worry. I prefer when the roads are covered in snow and ice, when they are impassable to vehicles, because the only people that have cars and fuel these days are slaverunners—merciless bounty hunters that work to feed Arena One. They patrol everywhere, looking for any survivors, to kidnap them and bring them to the arena as slaves. There, I’m told, they make them fight to the death for entertainment.
Bree and I have been lucky. We haven’t seen any slaverunners in the years we’ve been up here—but I think that’s only because we live so high up, in such a remote area. Only once did I hear the high-pitched whine of a slaverunner’s engine, far off in the distance, on the other side of the river, I think. I know they are down there, somewhere, patrolling. And I don’t take any chances—I make sure we keep a low profile, rarely burning wood unless we need to, and keeping a close eye on Bree at all times. Most of the times I take her hunting with me—I would have today if she weren’t so sick.
I turn back to the plateau and fix my eyes on the smaller lake. Frozen solid, shining in the afternoon light, it sits there like a lost jewel, hiding between a copse of trees. I approach it, taking a few tentative steps on the ice to make sure it doesn’t crack. Once I feel it’s solid, I take a few more. I find a spot, remove the small axe from my belt and chop down hard, several times. A crack appears. I remove my knife, take a knee and strike hard, right in the center of the crack. I work the tip of the knife in there and carve a small hole, just big enough to extract a fish.
I hurry back to shore, slipping and sliding, then wedge the fishing rod between two tree branches, unravel the string, and run back out and drop it in the hole. I yank it a few times, hoping that the flash of the metal hook might attract some living creatures beneath the ice. But I can’t help feeling it’s a futile endeavor, can’t help suspecting that anything that ever lived in these mountain lakes died long ago.
It’s even colder up here, and I can’t just stand here, staring at the line. I have to keep moving. I turn and walk away from the lake, the superstitious part of me telling me I might just catch a fish if I don’t stand there staring. I walk in small circles around the trees, rubbing my hands, trying to keep warm. It does little good.
That’s when I remember the other reason I hiked up here: dry wood. I look down and search the ground for kindling, but it is a futile task. The ground is covered in snow. I look up at the trees, and see the trunks and branches are mostly covered in snow, too. But there, in the distance, I spot a few wind-swept trees free of snow. I make my way over to them and inspect the bark, running my hand along it. I am relieved to see that some of the branches are dry. I take out my axe and chop one of the bigger branches. All I need is an armful of wood, and this large branch will do perfectly.
I catch it as it comes down, not wanting to let it hit the snow, then brace it against the trunk and chop it again, clean in half. I do this again and again, until I have a small stack of kindling, enough to carry in my arms. I set it down in the nook of a branch, safe and dry from the snow below.
I look around, inspecting the other trunks, and as I look closer, something gives me pause. I approach one of the trees, looking closely, and realize its bark is different than the others. I look up, and realize it’s not a Pine. It’s a Maple. I am surprised to see a Maple so high up here, and even more surprise that I actually recognize it. In fact, a Maple is probably the only one thing in nature that I would recognize. Despite myself, a memory comes flooding back.
Once, when I was young, my Dad got it into his head to take me on a nature outing. God knows why, he decided to take me to tap Maple trees. We drove for hours to some godforsaken part of the country, me carrying a metal bucket, he carrying a spout, and then spent hours more roaming the woods with a guide, searching for the perfect Maples. I remember the look of disappointment on his face after he tapped his first tree and a clear liquid oozed out into our bucket. He had been expecting syrup.
Our guide laughed at him, told him that Maple trees didn’t produce syrup—they produced sap. The sap had to be boiled down to syrup. It was a process that took hours, he said. It took about 80 gallons of sap to make a single quart of syrup.
Dad looked down at the overflowing bucket of sap in his hand and turned bright red, as if someone had sold him a rotten bill of goods. He was the proudest man I’d ever met, and if there was anything he hated more than feeling stupid, it was someone making fun of him. When the man laughed, he threw his bucket at him, barely missing him, took my hand, and we stormed off.
After that, he never took me out into nature again.
I didn’t mind, though—and actually enjoyed the outing, even though he fumed silently in the car the whole way home. I’d managed to collect a small cup of the sap before he’d taken me away, and I remember secretly sipping it on the car ride home, when he wasn’t looking. I loved it. It tasted like sugar water.
Standing here now, before this tree, I recognize it as I would a sibling. This specimen, so high up, is thin and scrawny, and I’d be surprised if it holds any sap at all. But I’ve got nothing to lose. I take out my knife and strike the tree, again and again, in the same spot. Then I burrow the knife into the hole, pushing deeper and deeper, twisting and turning. I don’t really expect anything to happen.
I’m shocked when a drop of sap leaks out. And even more shocked when, moments later it turns into a small, trickling stream. I hold out my finger, touch it, and raise it to my tongue. I feel the sugar rush, and recognize the taste immediately. Just as I remembered. I can’t believe it.
The sap leaks out at faster now, and I’m losing much of it as it drips down the trunk. I look around desperately for something to hold it in, a bucket of some sorts—but of course there is none. And then I remember: my thermos. I pull my plastic thermos out of my waistband and turn it upside down, emptying it of water. I can get fresh water anywhere, especially with all this snow—but this sap is precious. I hold the empty thermos flush against the tree, wishing I had a proper spout. I cram the plastic against the trunk as close as I can, and manage to catch much of it. It fills more slowly than I’d like, but within minutes, I’ve managed to fill half the thermos.
The flow of sap stops. I wait for a few seconds, wondering if it will start again, but it doesn’t.
I look around, and spot another Maple, about ten feet in the distance. I rush over to it and raise my knife excitedly and strike hard this time, envisioning myself filling the thermos, envisioning the look of surprise on Bree’s face when she tastes it. It might not be nutritious, but it will sure make her happy.
But this time, when my knife strikes the trunk, there is a sharp splitting noise that I don’t expect, and this is followed by the groaning of timber. I look up to see the entire tree leaning, and I realize, too late, that this tree, frozen over in a coat of ice, was dead. The plunging of my knife was all it needed to tip it over the edge.
A moment later the entire tree, at least twenty feet, falls over, crashing down to the ground. It stirs up an enormous cloud of snow and pine needles. I crouch down, nervous I might have alerted someone to my presence. I am furious with myself. That was careless. Stupid. I should have examined the tree more carefully first.
But after a few moments my heartbeat settles, as I realize there’s no one else up here. I become rational again, realize that trees fall by themselves in the forest all the time, and its crash wouldn’t necessarily give away a human presence. And as I look to the place where the tree once stood, I do a double-take. I find myself staring in disbelief.
There, in the distance, hiding behind a grove of trees, built right into the side of the mountain itself, is a small, stone cottage. It is a tiny structure, a perfect square, about fifteen feet wide and deep, built about twelve feet high, with walls made of ancient stone blocks. A small chimney rises from the roof, and there is a small window on each of its walls. The wooden front door, shaped in an arch, is ajar.
This little cottage is so well camouflaged, blends so perfectly with its surroundings, that even while staring at it, I can barely pick it out. Its roof and walls are covered in snow, and the stone that’s exposed blends perfectly into the landscape. The cottage looks ancient, as if it were built hundreds of years ago. I can’t understand what it’s doing here, who would have built it, or why. Maybe it was built for a caretaker for a state park. Maybe it was home to a recluse. Or a survival nut.
It looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. I carefully scan the forest floor, looking for footprints, or animal prints, in or out. But there are none. I think back to when the snow started falling, several days ago, and do the math in my head. No one has been in or out of here for at least three days.
My heart races at the thought of what could be inside. Food, clothing, medicine, weapons, materials—anything would be a godsend.
I move cautiously across the clearing, checking over my shoulder as I go just to make sure no one is watching. I move quickly, leaving big, conspicuous snow prints. As I reach the front door, I turn and look one more time, then stand there and wait for several seconds, listening. There is no sound but that of the wind and a nearby stream, which runs just a few feet in front of the house. I reach out and slam the back of my axe handle hard on the door, a loud reverberating noise, to give any animals that might be hiding inside a final warning.
There is no response.
I quickly shove open the door, pushing back the snow, and step inside.
It is dark in here, lit only by the last light of day streaming in through the small windows, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. I wait, standing with my back against the door, on guard in case any animals might be using this space as shelter. But after several more seconds of waiting, my eyes fully adjust to the dim light and it is clear that I’m alone.
The first thing I notice about this little house is its warmth. Perhaps it is because it is so small, with a low ceiling, and built right into the stone mountain itself; or perhaps because it is protected from the wind. Even though the windows are wide open to the elements, even though the door is still ajar, it must be at least fifteen degrees warmer in here—much warmer than Dad’s house ever is, even with a fire going. Dad’s house was built cheaply to begin with, with paper-thin walls and vinyl siding, built on a corner of a hill that always seems to be in the wind’s direct path.
But this place is different. The stone walls are so thick and well-built, I feel snug and safe in here. I can only imagine how warm this place could get if I shut the door, boarded up the windows, and had a fire in the fireplace—which looks to be in working shape. The inside consists of one large room, maybe fifteen by fifteen feet, and I squint into the darkness as I comb the floor, looking for anything, anything at all, that I can salvage. Amazingly, this place looks like it’s never been entered since the war. Every other house I’ve seen has smashed windows, debris scattered all over the place, clearly picked clean of anything that might be useful, down to the copper wires for the light bulbs. But not this one. It is pristine and clean and tidy, as if its owner just got up one day and walked away. I wonder if it was before the war even began. Judging from the cobwebs on the ceiling, and its incredible location, hidden so well behind the trees, I am guessing it was. That no one’s been here in decades.
I see the outline of an object against the far wall, and I make my way towards it, hands in front of me, groping in the darkness. When my hands touch it, I realize it is a chest of drawers. I run my fingers over its smooth, wood surface and can feel them covered in dust. I run my fingers over small knobs—drawer handles. I pull delicately, opening them one at a time. It is too dark to see, so I reach into each drawer with my hand, combing the surface. The first drawer yields nothing. Neither does the second. I open them all, quickly, my hopes falling—when suddenly, at the fifth drawer, I stop. There, in the back, I feel something. I slowly pull it out.
I hold it up to the light, through the open window, and at first I can’t tell what it is; but then I feel the telltale aluminum foil, and I realize: it’s a chocolate bar. A few bites were taken out of it, but it is still wrapped in its original wrapping, and mostly preserved. I unwrap it just a bit and hold it to my nose and smell it. I can’t believe it: real chocolate. We haven’t had chocolate since the war.
The smell brings a sharp hunger pang, and it takes all my willpower not to tear it open and devour it. I force myself to remain strong, carefully re-wrapping it and stowing it in my pocket. I will wait until I am with Bree to enjoy it. I smile, anticipating the look on her face when she takes her first bite. It will be priceless.
I quickly rummage through the remaining drawers, now hopeful I’ll find all sorts of treasure. But everything else comes up empty. I turn back to the room and walk through its width and breadth, along the walls, to all four corners, looking for anything at all. But the place is empty.
Suddenly, I step on something soft. I kneel down and pick it up, holding it to the light. I am amazed: a teddy bear. It is worn, and missing an eye, but still, Bree loves teddy bears, and misses the one she left behind. She will be ecstatic when she sees this. It looks like this is her lucky day.
I cram the bear in my belt, and as I get up, I feel my hand brush something soft on the floor. I grab it and hold it up, and am delighted to realize it’s a scarf. It’s black and covered in dust, so I couldn’t see it in the darkness, and as I hold it to my neck and chest, I can already feel its warmth. I hold it out the window and shake it hard, removing all the dust. I look at it in the light: it is long and thick—not even any holes. It is like pure gold. I immediately wrap it around my neck and tuck it under my shirt, and already feel much warmer. I sneeze.
The sun is setting, and as it seems I’ve found everything I’m going to, I begin to exit. As I head for the door, suddenly, I stub my toe into something hard, metal. I stop and kneel down, feeling for it in case it’s a weapon. It’s not. It’s a round, iron knob, attached to the wooden floor plank. Like a knocker. Or a handle.
I yank it left and right. Nothing happens. I try twisting it. Nothing. Then I take a chance and stand off to the side and pull it hard, straight up.
A trap door opens, raising a cloud of dust.
; I look down and discover a crawlspace, about four feet high, with a dirt floor. My heart soars at the possibilities. If we lived here, and there was ever trouble, I could always hide Bree down here. This little cottage becomes even more valuable in my eyes.
And not only that. As I look down, I catch sight of something gleaming. I push back the heavy wooden door all the way, and quickly scramble down the ladder. It is black down here, and I hold my hands in front of me, groping my way. As I take a step forward, I feel something. Glass. Shelves are built into the wall, and lined up on them are glass jars. Mason jars.
I pull one down and hold it up to the light. Its contents are red and soft. It looks like jam. I quickly unscrew the tin lid, hold it to my nose and smell it. The pungent smell of raspberries hits me like a wave. I stick a finger in, scoop it and hold it tentatively to my tongue. I can’t believe it: raspberry jam. And it tastes as fresh as if it were made yesterday.
I quickly tighten the lid, cram the jar into my pocket, and hurry back to the shelves. I can already feel, in the blackness, that there are dozens more. I grab the closest one, rush back to the light, and hold it up. It looks like pickles.
I am in awe. This place is a gold mine.
I wish I could grab it all, but my hands are freezing, I don’t have anything to carry it with, and it’s getting dark out. So I put the jar of pickles back where I found it, scramble up the ladder, and, as I make it back to the main floor, close the trap door firmly behind me. I wish I had a lock; I feel nervous leaving all of that down there, unprotected. But then I remind myself that this place hasn’t been touched in years—and that I probably never would have even noticed it if that tree didn’t fall.
As I leave, I close the door all the way, feeling protective, already feeling as if this is our home.
Pockets full, I hurry back towards the lake—but suddenly freeze as I sense movement and hear a noise. At first I worry someone has followed me; but as I slowly turn, I see it is something else. A deer is standing there, ten feet away, staring back at me. It is the first deer I’ve seen in years. Its large, black eyes lock onto mine, then it suddenly turns and bolts.
I am speechless. I’d spent month after month searching for a deer, hoping I could get close enough to one to throw my knife at it. But I’d never been able to find one, anywhere. Maybe I wasn’t hunting high enough. Maybe up here is where they’ve lived all along.
I resolve to return, first thing in the morning, and wait all day if I have to. If it was here once, maybe it will come back. The next time I see it, I will kill it. That deer would be enough food to feed us for a week.
I am filled with new hope as I hurry to the lake. As I approach and check my rod, my heart leaps to see that it’s bent nearly in half. Shaking with excitement, I scurry across the ice, slipping and sliding. I grab the line, which is shaking wildly, and pray that it holds.
I reach over and yank it firmly. I can feel the force of a large fish yanking back, and I silently will the line not to snap, the hook not to break. I give it one final yank, and the fish comes flying out of the hole. It is a huge Salmon, the size of my arm. It lands on the ice and flip-flops every which way, sliding across. I run to it and reach down and grab it, but it slips right through my hands, and plops back on the ice. My hands are too slimy to grab a hold of it, so I lower my sleeves and reach down and grab it more firmly this time. It flops and squirms in my hands for a good thirty seconds, until finally, it settles down, dead.
I am amazed. It is my first catch in months.
I am ecstatic as I slide across the ice and set it down on the shore, packing it in the snow, afraid it will somehow come back to life and jump back into the lake. I take down the rod and line and hold it one hand, then grab the fish in the other. I can feel the mason jar of jam in one pocket, and the thermos of sap in the other, crammed in with the chocolate bar, and the teddy bear on my waist. Bree will have an abundance of riches tonight.
There is just one thing left to grab. I walk over to the stack of dry wood, balance the rod in my arm, and with my free hand grab as many logs as I can hold. I drop a few, and can’t take as many as I’d like, but I’m not complaining. I can always come back for the rest of it in the morning.
Hands, arms and pockets full, I slip and slide down the steep mountain face in the last light of day, careful not to drop any of my treasure. As I go, I can’t stop thinking about the cottage. It’s perfect, and my heart beats faster at the possibilities. This is exactly what we need. Our Dad’s house is too conspicuous, built on a main road. I’ve been worrying for months that we’re too vulnerable being there. All we’d need is one random slaverunner to pass by, and we’d be in trouble. I’ve been wanting to move us for a long time, but just had no idea where. I haven’t seen any other houses up here at all.
That little cottage, so high up, so far from any road—and built literally into the mountain—is so well camouflaged, it’s almost as if it were built just for us. No one would ever be able to find us there. And even if they did, they couldn’t come anywhere near us with a vehicle. They’d have to hike up on foot, and from that vantage point, I’d spot them a mile away.
The house also has a fresh water source, a running stream right in front of its door; I wouldn’t have to leave Bree alone every time I go hiking to bathe and wash our clothes. And I wouldn’t have to carry buckets of water one at a time all the way from the lake every time I prepare a meal. Not to mention that, with that huge canopy of trees, we would be concealed enough to light fires in the fireplace every night. We would be safer, warmer, in a place teeming with fish and game—and stocked with a basement full of food. My mind is made up. I’m going to move us there tomorrow.
It’s like a weight off my shoulders. I feel reborn. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t feel the hunger gnawing away, don’t feel the cold piercing my fingertips. Even the wind, as I climb down, seems to be at my back, helping me along, and I know that things have finally turned around. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I know that now, we can make it.
Now, we can survive.
T W O
