I reach for Aspen’s hand and squeeze it, hoping the gesture isn’t overstepping. “Thank you. I really needed to talk to someone about all this.”
Aspen yanks me forward into a hug, the faint sweet almond scent of her enveloping me. “That’s what friends are for, girl.”
Friends. The word feels good. A comfortable buffer against the chaos I’ve introduced into my life.
TWENTY-TWO
GRAYSON
Holly disappearsinto The Mountain Mug with Aspen, and I exhale. Safe. For now.
I scan the street from my vantage point, cataloging potential threats out of habit. Two tourist hikers arguing over a map about where the trailhead starts. A local teen shoveling the sidewalk in front of the pharmacy. Mrs. Henderson’s ancient retriever sleeping in a patch of sun. Nothing concerning.
The air carries a sharp bite of pine and wood smoke. Familiar. Grounding. I adjust my bandanna, making sure the skull design covers the worst of my scars, and head toward the general store. Jenkins will be waiting, probably grumbling about me being late again.
Main Street hasn’t changed much since I was a kid. Same storefronts, different paint. The hardware store where my father bought nails every Saturday morning. The bookshop where my mother would let me choose one paperback a month if I’d kept my grades up. The diner where I had my first job washing dishes at fourteen.
Before the Army. Before Afghanistan. Before the IED that took off a quarter of the skin on my face and my ability to feel like I’ll ever really belong among other people again.
The bell above the door jingles as I push into the general store. The scent hits me immediately—coffee grounds, leather, pine cleaner, and the faint metallic tang of the hunting gear in the back room. Home, in its own way.
“Bout time you showed up.” Jenkins doesn’t look up from the register, his gnarled fingers punching numbers into the ancient machine with surprising dexterity. “Thought maybe you’d run off to the woods again.”
I grunt in response, moving behind the counter to hang my jacket on the hook. Jenkins knows me well enough to translate my sounds into conversation.
“Got a delivery of those fancy protein bars the tourists like. Need unpacking.” He jerks his head toward the storeroom. “And Mrs. Calloway’s been in twice looking for you. Something about a special order.”
I nod and head to the storeroom, grateful for tasks that don’t require talking. The rhythm of unpacking boxes, checking inventory, stocking shelves—it settles something in me. Out in the world, I’m always on alert, tracking movement, assessing threats. Here, I can almost relax.
Almost.
My thoughts drift to Holly as I slice open a packing box. The way she looked at me across the street just now—recognition, understanding. No fear. She knows I’ve been watching her, and she didn’t run. I’m going to call that progress.
The bell jingles again, pulling me from thoughts I shouldn’t be having at work. I hear Mrs. Calloway’s distinctive voice, high and nasal, asking Jenkins where I’m hiding.
I sigh and head back to the front, a stack of protein bars in my arms.
“There he is!” Mrs. Calloway announces, as if she’s spotted a rare bird. She’s wearing a fur-trimmed coat that’s at least three sizes too large, making her look like a child playing dress-up. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
I nod in acknowledgment, placing the bars on the counter to stock later.
“I ordered those special European chocolates for my bridge club.” She taps her long nails against the counter. “You said they’d be in by Tuesday. It’s Thursday.”
Jenkins shoots me an apologetic look from behind her.Supply chain issues, he mouths.
“Shipping delay,” I tell her. “Try back Monday.”
“Monday!” She huffs, adjusting her oversized coat. “Well, that’s just typical. You know, you’re the worst worker this store has ever had. Old man Jenkins should have hired someone who actually cares about customer service.”
I feel my lips twitch upward behind my bandana. If she only knew.
“Sorry,” I manage, hoping it sounds apologetic rather than amused.
Mrs. Calloway continues her tirade about the declining standards of service in Heat Mountain while I stand there, letting the words wash over me like white noise as I think about the irony of her complaints.
What would she say if she knew I’ve owned this place for three years? That I bought it when Jenkins was six weeks from foreclosure, drowning in medical bills after his wife’s cancer treatments? That I only work here because the old man can’t manage on his own but is too proud to admit it? This place is only profitable in the tourist season, and I keep it open year-round for the sake of the town, not because I need the money.
The accumulated combat pay and hazard bonuses from three tours sit mostly untouched in my accounts. I’ve never neededmuch—enough wood to make a blind, good hunting gear, reliable transportation. Money means little in the backcountry where I spend most of my time.
