“Good. But only if you need help. Otherwise, you listen for my signals. Two blows, look at me. Three blows, freeze. Got it?”
“Got it,” she confirms.
Jess is standing a few feet back. Close enough to hear but not crowding. Her arms are crossed and she’s looking around at the tree line like it might sprout teeth.
I catch her eye. “Your turn. Bear spray demo.”
She reaches for the canister clipped to her bag. Fumbles the carabiner release. Her fingers slip.
Tries again. Same result.
She can’t even get the damn thing unclipped.
These woods must have her really unsettled.
“Here.” I move behind her. Not touching but close enough that my chest nearly brushes her back. “Squeeze the gate. Twist. There.”
The canister comes free. She holds it like it might explode.
“Now the safety,” I continue. “Pop the clip off. Then you’d aim and press the trigger. But we’re not actually spraying. These cans lose range every timeyou test them. Plus the residue can contaminate the area.”
I pull out my own canister. Show her the mechanics. Safety clip. Trigger position. Proper grip. “See? Simple. But you need to be able to do it without thinking. Muscle memory.”
She tries again. She unclips it, and gets the safety off this time but her hands are shaking when she tries to position her grip properly.
Not from cold. The afternoon’s warm.
No. This is fear.
I’ve seen enough line cooks freeze during a Friday rush to recognize panic when it’s trying to hide.
“Again,” I tell her quietly.
She resets. Clips the bear spray back. Unclips it. Removes the safety. Positions her hands. Her breathing’s getting faster. Shallower.
Fuck.
I step closer. Close enough that my breath hits her temple when I whisper. “Breathe, Jess. In, out. Three times.”
We take three deep breaths together. She seems to calm, a little.
I’m still close to her, so I add, for her ears only: “Who hurt you, Jess?”
The question comes out harder than I intended. Angrier.
Because someone did this to her. Someone or something made this woman who reorganizes mudrooms at dawn and builds breathing systems for anxious five year olds into someone who can’t hold a fucking bear spray canister without shaking.
She doesn’t look at me. Stares straight ahead at the trees. “The woods.”
Two words. A half truth wrappedin honesty.
Not a person then. The place itself.
I want to press. Want to demand the full story. But that’s not how you handle fear. You can’t force someone through a walk-in freezer door if they’re not ready. You just keep the exit visible and let them choose.
“Okay.” I step back. Give her space. Take in both her and Ben. “Let’s check redundancies.”
I run through the list out loud. For Jess. For me. The invisible checklist that lives in my head like a prep station layout.
