I don't understand. Sure, the kindling is a little green, but I start a fire in my hearth every morning and have no trouble, but out here, it's like I'm inept.
"You're doing it wrong." Sloane's voice comes from the mouth of the igloo where she stretches and yawns. She looks remarkably composed for someone who spent the night in a snow cave.
"I know how to start a fire." I don't mean to sound defensive or grumpy but this is ridiculous. Something I've done a million times seems harder here in nature.
"Clearly." She kneels beside my failed attempt, stooping to have a look. "Hmm…" she hums, and then she takes over, rearranging my setup completely.
She scrapes away my platform and digs deeper into the snow until she hits frozen ground. Then she uses my knife to shave fine curls of wood from a dead branch I have set to the side to burn once I have a flame. I get colder and more upset asshe stacks everything to the side and leaves only a small pile of shavings in the center.
When she takes the knife and cuts a strand of her hair, I'm scowling. Of course she's going to make some sacrifice for the greater good just to prove her worth and make me feel like less of a man, but deep down, I know if she gets a fire going to warm me up, I'll be thankful.
This time when the lighter sparks the hair, wood shavings catch immediately and within three minutes, we have a small but steady fire burning. Sloane nurses that thing like it's a newborn sucking her tit, slowly adding larger and larger piles of wood until I'm warming my hands and she's tucking the knife into her pocket.
"How—"
"I told you. I'm an expert at outdoor survival." She adds larger pieces now, building the fire more. "You should just listen to me when we're out here."
The reminder that I'm not in control, that my skills don't translate to this environment, grates against my ego. I've survived situations that would destroy most people, but out here in the mountains, I'm useless. It's even worse when I realize that she could’ve walked out of my home in my clothing at any time and survived without me and there would’ve been nothing I could do about it.
I stand abruptly, needing to do something I'm actually good at in order to maintain my self-assurance. "I'm gonna find food," I grunt, and I stomp off.
"Dane—"
But I'm already walking, following the tree line, scanning for signs of game with a heavy stick in my hand. My stomach's growling because I haven't eaten anything since lunch time yesterday, and if I can't make a fire, I can at least do something I know I'm good at, which is to track and kill. I've been doing it most of my life whether it was men or animals, and I won't go back to that fire until I have something to contribute.
The snow is deep and makes movement challenging, but I stomp quietly through it as I scan the trees for movement. Hunting people and hunting animals require different techniques, but the core skills translate—patience, observation, reading the environment.
When I see the distinct fluffed snow track of some medium bird, I pause and let my eyes unfocus. Capturing movement first is easier than trying to zero in on what I'm looking at. From what I can see, it's likely a grouse, though I know how skittish they are at times. So when my eyes see wings stretch out and flutter on the ground under a fir tree, I turn to look at it. A ruffed grouse, staring off into the distance, clearly spooked by my movement.
The grouse shifts and raises its head, alerted by my proximity, and I have maybe three seconds before it flushes. When it turns its head away, I wind up and throw the stick as hard as I can, praying my aim is true. The stick catches the bird mid-takeoff, knocking it from the air, and the bird hits the ground in a puff of powder.
The same adrenaline boost I get when letting an arrow fly after large game floods me now as I rush over and pick the bird up, not sure if it's dead, and I snap its neck to humanely dispatch it. Life is precious, and in a survival situation, even more so.
"Thank you for your life, little friend," I say softly as I suck in a deep breath, already feeling better about this jaunt into the mountains with Sloane Grady, expert outdoorsman.
I carry my prize back to camp with more satisfaction than the small bird probably warrants, but it's proof I can contribute, that I'm not completely helpless out here.
Sloane looks up from the fire when I approach, and her face lights up. "You got a grouse. Nice."
"I can hunt," I grunt, setting the bird down near the fire. "It's not much, but it's something."
"It's breakfast." She pulls out her knife and begins cleaning by cutting off its head and hanging it by its feet. "A grouse this size will feed us both if we're smart about it."
I watch her work, impressed despite myself. She field-dresses the bird so quickly that within minutes, she has it on a makeshift spit over the fire, skin crisping in the heat. She wasn't kidding when she said she knows what she's doing out here. With her aversion to meat and potatoes, I made incorrect assumptions, and I'm finding myself all the more drawn to her every second, which is bad for her longevity. I know that, but damn if I'm not finding that I want her in my life so badly, I may not let her go.
"We need to talk about what we're gonna do," she says while we wait for it to cook. "We can't stay on this mountain forever. Eventually, we’ll run out of gas, and they'll come looking. We don't have enough guns and ammo to survive that."
"I know." I add another branch to the fire. "But going back to town is suicide. Cal's people are everywhere. After Carver got shot, who knows what will happen or if I'll be arrested."
"We can trust Ellie," Sloan says with confidence. "I know it, Dane. She's really kind and she knows everyone. She'll help us."
"And put her in danger too?" I almost scoff at her. Involving more people is the last thing we should do. "Cal doesn't hesitate to eliminate witnesses." I shake my head. "Everyone we involve becomes a target."
"So, what's your alternative? Run forever? Keep hiding until Cal eventually finds us again?" Her voice is rising now, and I can tell she's getting frustrated. "That's not a plan, Dane."
"At least we'd be alive."
"Would we, though? Living in constant fear, always running, never having a moment of peace? That's not living. I want to go home." Her words sting my heart because she's only speaking the truth, but her truth leads her to a place I can't go. It reminds me that I can't keep her. I'm only serving a purpose in her life, which after being fulfilled means I'm disposable.
