Thatcher—I call him that now at his insistence, he said formality isn’t necessary at the mill, and everyone seems to go by first names—gave me a whole pile of branded gear.
He said everyone gets one.
Like some sort of welcome package.
I was hesitant at first, but I didn’t refuse.
I’m glad I didn’t.
It’s going to be cold out there.
I shove my feet into my nearly worn-out sneakers and step up to the window.
My stomach drops.
There’s at least nine inches of snow on the ground already, the wind howling hard enough to rattle the glass.
The world outside looks white and angry and completely uninterested in my comfort.
I swallow.
Then, I brace myself and open the door.
This is going to suck.
The wind bites through my clothes despite the layers I put on to protect myself, and my feet are freezing inside my thin sneakers.
I have to move.
Standing here panicking isn’t helping anyone.
The cabin is already cooling fast, and whatever popped outside didn’t sound small.
I need to check the generator—see if there’s a switch, a breaker, something I can reset.
I push the door open and step into chaos.
The snow is coming down sideways, sharp and blinding, stinging my face the second I’m outside.
Wind howls through the trees like it’s alive, like it’s hunting. I can barely see my own hands in front of me, but I know where the generator sits—around back, tucked into its little housing.
I move by memory.
My foot catches on something buried under the snow and I go down hard, soaking my pants straight through to the knees.
Cold bites instantly, teeth chattering as I scramble back up, breath coming too fast.
“Okay. Okay,” I whisper to myself. “You’re fine. Just get there.”
I find it.
And my stomach drops straight to my feet.
“Oh shit,” I whimper.
Sparks are spitting out in short, violent bursts. Smoke curls up into the storm, acrid and sharp.
The smell hits me—burning metal, electricity, something wrong.
