"How did you find this place?" I ask.
"Built it." Rhys navigates a switchback, the truck's four-wheel drive gripping where other vehicles would slide. "After Emma died, I needed somewhere to go. Somewhere nobody could find me unless I wanted them to."
"You built an entire cabin?"
"Took two years. Mostly worked on it during my days off. Gave me something to do besides drink and feel sorry for myself." His voice is matter-of-fact, no self-pity. Just stating facts. "It's not fancy. But it's mine."
The truck climbs higher, the road becoming more suggestion than reality. Snow falls heavier now, thick enough that the headlights reflect back white. Visibility drops to maybe twenty feet.
"We might not make it out for a few days," Rhys says. "If this storm dumps as much snow as they're predicting."
"Forty-eight hours is the plan anyway."
"Forty-eight hours minimum. Could be seventy-two. Could be longer if the roads don't clear."
I should feel trapped. Anxious. But instead there's something almost peaceful about the isolation. No one can find us out here. No assassins. No trafficking networks. Just snow and silence and two people trying to survive.
The cabin appears through the trees like something from a different century. Single story, hand-hewn logs dark with age and weather. A stone chimney rises from one end. Solar panels angle from the roof, barely visible under accumulating snow.
Rhys doesn't stop at the cabin. He drives past it another fifty yards into a dense stand of spruce, killing the engine under the heavy canopy. "I keep a tarp in the back. Help me cover it?"
We work quickly, spreading the dark green tarp over the truck until it's nearly invisible against the trees and shadows. Snow is already accumulating on top, adding natural camouflage.
"Anyone looking won't find it easy," he says.
We make our way back to the cabin through snow that's already ankle-deep. The door is heavy wood with iron hinges, the kind that belongs in a medieval castle. It swings open smoothly despite its weight.
The interior is dim and cold. A wood stove sits in the corner, its door closed. The main room is small but functional. The kitchen area occupies one wall with a propane stove and hand pump sink. A table and two chairs sit near the center. A worn couch faces the wood stove. Shelves line the walls, stocked with books and canned goods.
Two doorways lead off the main room. One to a bedroom, I assume. The other probably a bathroom.
"It's not much," Rhys says, moving to the wood stove. He opens the door, revealing kindling already laid inside. Strikes a match and the fire catches quickly. "Give it twenty minutes and it'll be warm in here."
"It's perfect," I say. And I mean it. No technology. No distractions. Just the basics of survival and shelter.
He shows me how the stove works while it heats, and how to adjust the damper for more or less heat. The propane stove operates on tanks stored outside, refilled twice a year. The hand pump brings water from a well, cold and clean. There's a bathroom with a composting toilet and a shower fed by a tank that heats on the wood stove.
"Generator is out back if we need it. But I try to keep usage minimal. Solar panels charge batteries for lights." He flips a switch and LED bulbs glow warm. "Satellite phone is here if we need to contact Zeke."
I look around the cabin, taking it in. Photos line one shelf. Most of them are of a woman I assume is Emma. Blonde and smiling, sometimes alone, sometimes with Rhys. Young and in love. Before tragedy rewrote their story.
"You can take the bedroom," Rhys says. "I'll sleep out here."
"We can figure it out later." I move to the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands. "You have food?"
"Pantry's stocked. Nothing fancy, but enough to last a month if needed."
We work together in the small kitchen. Rhys pulls out cans and dried goods while I start water heating on the propane stove. The domesticity feels strange. I haven't cooked with another person since Baker. Haven't shared space like this with anyone.
"Chili okay?" Rhys asks.
"Chili's great."
He works efficiently, opening cans, adding spices from jars labeled in neat handwriting. Emma's handwriting, probably. The thought creates a weird tightness in my chest.
"Tell me about her," I say. "About Emma."
Rhys stills, can opener in hand. For a long moment he doesn't respond, and I think maybe I've pushed too far. But then he starts talking.
