by B.R. Paulson
Chapter 19
We stopped hiking beside a covered, well-stacked pile of fire wood. John pulled down the back wall of logs and revealed a cavity filled with supplies.
“Only take what you can comfortably carry. We should have enough backpacks in here for each of us. I don’t have any extra blankets. So the two in each pack will need to do.” He handed me a black and green hiking pack, similar to the one I used of my dad’s. I pulled the straps on. He nodded my way. “You have my wife’s. She’s about the same size you are. So you can use the extra clothes in there.”
He turned away before I could reply. What would I say? Thanks for giving me your wife’s stuff? She’s probably dead like my mom, but thanks just the same? He would understand the sentiment but I couldn’t say anything, the words awkward and heavy on my tongue.
Bodey pulled on a pack of his own, grabbing a canteen and draping the long shoulder strap around his neck and over one arm. His dad did the same.
Copying them, I grabbed a canteen and pulled it over my head, the nylon lines scratching my skin.
John handed me a camouflage bucket hat with a cord to tighten under my chin. “To keep the sun off you, if it ever comes back out.” He pulled out of the cavity and stacked the few logs to reseal the storage space. “Let’s go, kids.”
Bodey fell into step behind me, the slight huff of his breath a comfort as I followed John from their property. We headed into the forest, more shots from the direction of the house chasing us down a rise and into a ravine.
Hopefully, John knew where we were going, because I’d exhausted any plans I could’ve come up with. I didn’t know what to do or where to go, but I could place one foot in front of the other and follow the Christiansons out of there.
John had promised to take care of me. The short time with Mom in camp had taught me I needed support in some form. We all seemed to.
