I hit the brakes hard enough that the truck skids a few feet. “You don’t really think that, do you?”
Wren reaches out their palm and squeezes my knee. “No. I was just illustrating your point, I guess. I have no idea what face the person sent to kill me will wear. You said you watchedThe Matrix, right? Remember the training program Mouse built?”
The truck idles beneath us, but I don’t move forward. I turn in my seat to face Wren. “Yeah, I remember. The one with the woman in the red dress. She’s there to teach them how easy it is to get distracted. Because if you’re too busy looking at her, you get distracted, you stop paying attention and…”
My words taper off.
You give someone you didn’t see coming the chance to kill you.
You miss the threat standing right next to you.
“Shit, Wren.”
“Yeah, well, this is the life I built for myself.” They look out the window and pretend to be super interested in the ten feet ahead of the truck. “Is the cabin far?”
It’s tempting to push in so many different ways.
But I don’t, because I’m well aware they could make themself disappear permanently.
They could find a regular job, dye their hair, build a new name and identity.
Maybe they could do a better job of protecting themself without me.
I debate asking Wren to stay.
Pleading with them if I have to.
“No more than ten minutes,” I say instead.
27
WREN
The cabin is basic, just like Catfish said, but that isn’t a bad thing given the wave of anxiety currently choking me as surely as if it had its hands around my neck.
There’s much to do to make the small box habitable.
First, it’s utterly frigid in here.
But thankfully, someone took the time to cut and stack firewood, some in the corner of the cabin, and more lined up outside beneath a shallow roof, covered in a thick tarp to keep the worst of the weather off it.
The first thing I did was start the fire in the cast-iron fireplace with the cloudy glass door so it could start getting warm before we brought everything else in. I need the heat to obliterate the cold so I can understand whether my shaking hands are a function of the temperature or panic.
I’ve killed two spiders already and am dreading sleeping in the full bed over on the other side of the room. There’s no telling what is lurking inside the corners of that mattress.
Catfish walked down to the river to get us fresh water with a heavy-duty pot and a pickaxe from a rusted tool cabinet next to the only door. I’d told him we could wait until morning, but hewanted us to be able to have something hot to drink before going to bed.
I wish we had whiskey. Preferably a bottle but a glass would do. Something strong enough to take the edge off and quiet the ever-growing thunder in my skull. Because my vision keeps narrowing like I’m standing precariously close to the edge of a cliff.
Multiple glasses would both warm me and hopefully drown out the rising tide of panic before knocking me out in a drunken sleep.
Since there’s none of that, I keep moving.
I sweep cobwebs out of the corners and drag bags out of the car. On the ride, Catfish told me he’d had a premonition that we’d need to run, so he disappeared to pack emergency supplies into his truck, over and above what we swiped from the ranch house.
There’s no toilet here, running water, or shower. Instead, I focus on setting up zones. I organize canned goods and dry packets onto a long table against one wall, wiping the dust away with a rag as I go.
A plastic tote box containing rolled-up sleeping bags sits by the wall. They smell like wet canvas and campfires, and I have no idea how many people have used them before. Surely the fireplace will get hot enough before we go to sleep that I can simply stay in my clothes and sleep below the thick jacket I’m currently wearing.
