This time, Ravik left us on the main path, and Zion walked me all the way to my door. “If you like, I could bring over the TV/VCRcombo,” he offered. “I found a veritable treasure trove of turn-of-the-century movies in the closet of our old house.”
Actually…
To my surprise, after a long day of arting, I found myself saying, “I’d like that.”
Over the next few weeks, a pattern established.
Boone or Zion brought dinner. We walked at sunset. Ravik joined us, always silent—hands ready at his sides, eyes scanning the perimeter like he was on patrol.
Boone gave me space after that morning when he’d helped me get over my nightmare. I wasn’t sure if it was for his benefit or mine.
Sometimes, when I glanced over at him during our comfortably quiet walks, I’d catch him watching me with this hungry look. Like a starving animal biding its time, waiting for... something.
It worried me. Not because I was afraid of him, but because the guilt and certainty that I wasn’t the one for them—was starting to fade into something way more dangerous.
Curiosity.
Zion, meanwhile, always had gossip to share about pageant rehearsals. The on-again, off-again showmance between the stage director and the girl playing Mother Ursa. Jacobi Baerlow’s infuriating refusal to get fully off book, despite his natural ease in the role of the Great Serpent.
Or sometimes we’d just talk about whatever early 2000s movie we’d watched a couple of nights before in my cottage. Zion was fond of including Ravik in the conversation by explaining what happened in a movie he’d either never seen or didn’t remember. And let me tell you, there was nothing funnier than listening to Zion recap the “brilliant comedic shenanigans” ofRush Hour 1and2in his professorial accent.
We never talked about me. And I liked it that way.
Some days, I went hours without thinking about Dennis.
May faded into June, and I got used to spending every day freeing the bear with a natural stop as sunset for dinner, followed by a daily walk where I listened, asked questions, avoided thinking about my daughters, and strangely started to feel a new kind of normal.
And then there were the daily gifts.
A carving knife. A set of chisels. More gouges—U- and V-shaped. A mallet. Wood oil. Rasps and files. Gloves. Suede finger protectors—for when I needed to do precise work the gloves couldn’t handle. Sandpaper and sanding blocks. Two saws—both hand and bow. An extremely optimistic canister of wood sealer. And finally, a set of adzes with bears carved into their handles.
“I appreciate it so much,” I told Ravik that evening, after the adzes appeared. He’d joined Boone and me on the nightly walk, as usual. “But please stop. I don’t know how much all of these tools cost, and I’m getting really anxious about being able toeventually pay you back for all of the supplies you keep getting me. I don’t want to sound ungrateful….”
Ravik didn’t answer. Just did his single nod thing.
And the next morning, I found a bouquet of wildflowers waiting for me on the chair.
I stood there holding them as a warm ache bloomed behind my ribs.
I didn’t know why getting flowers instead of tools made me want to cry. Maybe because I felt listened to? Heard? In a way that didn’t require words.
Maybe....
But I doubled down on my work, even more determined to free the bear from the wood.
Getting to him had been an effort, for sure. So far, the project had been full of ups and downs.
Sometimes the days flowed so easily, I looked up to a sunset lecture from Boone about not eating enough.
Sometimes the day stopped and stuttered with mistakes—wrong angle, the grain fighting me, taking too much off, leaving too much on, not sure how to do what I wanted to do, especially without any kind of resource pic other than a few sketches I’d made with my morning coffee.
Sometimes I got so frustrated, I’d walk to the lakeshore, sit myself down on a rock, and just stare at the water. Thinking about what a stupid, idiotic mess I was. How I should be up in Bear Mountain proper with my daughters. Getting a job. Notspending all my time on an art project like I was still twenty-one with my whole life ahead of me.
I was fifty-six.Fifty-six! When was I going to get myself together?
Sometimes I cried. A lot. And it had nothing to do with the bear inside the wood.
But eventually, with enough staring at the water, a peace would wash over me, and I’d know exactly what to do next to progress the project.
