ONE
AVA
The wind batters against the groaning wooden door, causing the overhead lights to flicker again. I clutch my arms tighter around myself, thankful I remembered to stop and fill the gas canisters for the generator before climbing another hour and a half up the mountain into the middle of the dense, snow-drenched forest.
Now the question looms: am I really willing to traipse out into the frigid dark, around the back of the cabin, to fill said generator and hope it starts? Realistically? That’s a big, fat hell no. I’m already frozen to the bone from making it inside through the storm.
The small fireplace crackles weakly, only now starting to breathe a little warmth into the room. Maybe the brunt of the storm will hold out long enough for the others to arrive? Then someone else—my dad or brothers—can take on that freezing chore.
I poke at the logs with the iron fire stake, spreading the small pile of glowing coals flat before adding more wood. Theonly way to chase the cold from this place is to keep feeding the fire. I should really start the others in everyone’s rooms, or we’ll all end up sleeping on top of each other in the cramped living room tonight.
My family has owned this cabin longer than I’ve been alive. Longer than my parents, even. And still, it hasn’t been upgraded in over eighty years, except for modern amenities like electricity and indoor plumbing. Heat? Still entirely reliant on this beautiful stone-laid fireplace and the small old wood-burning stoves.
My great-great-grandfather built this cabin with his own hands before he even turned twenty, deep in the heart of the Chesapeake Forest. Each generation since has added its own layer of character or wear and tear. Especially after my brothers were born.
I grew up loving it here. Summers were designated fishing trips for Dad on the little manmade lake down the ridge, while Mom lounged on the porch with a book, half-watching us kids tear through the trees like wild things.
Winters were even better. The snowed-in holidays with cookies baking fragrantly in the antique oven. All of us hunting through the forest for the perfect Christmas tree, before chopping it down to decorate with the handmade ornaments we’d made the night before. But the sled races down icy slopes, seeing who could beat the other to the lake’s frozen edge, was always my favorite. I dream of those memories becoming new ones someday, with a family of my own.
The fire snaps as the fresh logs catch, and I brush off the dusty floor residue from my jeans. Reaching into my purse, I dig for the phone charger I know I shoved in here before hauling myself inside earlier. I need to keep it charged in case Imanage to catch the phantom signal that appears and disappears at will. I’m still waiting on an update from the others, and as the time ticks on, my anxiety bubbles without word.
As early evening stretches into a heavy, silent night, the snow thickens outside the fogged-up windows. Dread settles deeper into my chest that I might be spending my first night out here all alone.
My cell won’t connect. The flashing signal-seeking icon taunts me. I keep my eyes peeled out the windows, but the darkness settles beyond the curtains. No headlights wind up the snowy miles-long drive.
Maybe driving up here alone wasn’t the brightest idea.
I turn the knob on the ancient radio, an old-school relic from my parents’ glory days in the nineties. I twist the dial back and forth, trying every tick mark that should be a station, but nothing cuts through the static. If only I could catch a bit of the local news to see what the weather has in store for me. But not even an errant music note or crackly voice breaks through.
The usually peaceful silence pushes in around me as more snow falls by the minute, blanketing the thick wood walls. Now it feels more like an enemy than a friend.
The cabin’s tucked ten long miles from the nearest county road and fifty from the closest highway. No cable or Wi-Fi service is available this far out. My parents always talked about getting a satellite, but never followed through. Now look where that’s left me.
“Unplug and reconnect with each other,” they’d say.
Well, that’s great, usually. It’s charming, really. But tonight, it just feels isolating. The cell signal barely works on a clear day, and today’s sky is lined thick with storm clouds. Still, I check the screen, hoping for a miracle. No bars. No hope. And my weather app’s stuck on Bryton, hours away.
My scoff echoes, bouncing off timber walls. The only sounds not inside my head keeping me company are the popping fire and the soft, insistent hiss of static on the radio. I twist the dial again, against my better judgement, until finally—faint and unstable—a classic Christmas tune breaks through.
I’ll take it. A win’s a win.
With the smallest light of something positive, I putz around the kitchen. Humming the familiar song, I unpack bags stuffed with enough snacks to last me a week. Though with my brothers coming, I’ll be lucky to get a handful of chips. I shove the last box of cookies into the pantry and grab my suitcase from beside the kitchen table, dragging it down the short hallway toward the bedrooms at the back.
The cabin’s on the smaller side, but it still has four bedrooms. My brothers, ten months apart and thick as thieves since the day Dalton was born, always claimed the big one to share. That leaves one spare for guests, and the tiny one at the end of the hall that has been mine since I was a little girl.
I step into the familiar space and pause. It hasn’t changed. The same dresser I painted with swirls and fairies sits next to the full-size bed covered in the faded quilt Grandma made me when I turned ten. But it’s the abandoned childhood trinkets lined up on the shelves and along the floorboards that feel like ghosts of vacations past.
I tuck my clothes away and stash my suitcase under the bed frame before kneeling by the small stove in the corner. There’s a tidy stack of old kindling beside it. I work quickly, grate closing with a metallic thunk just as I hear a forceful knock at the front door.
My heart leaps.
“Coming!” I call out, assuming someone’s got their arms full.
I’d refused to take more than one trip myself when I arrived earlier, trudging through the storm with half my bodyweight in bags.
I run for the door. My spirits lift with relief. I’m ready to see my family, especially my mom. It’s been months with school swallowing up all my weekends, every scheduled dinner slipping by.
I flick the locks and yank open the door.
