Page 55 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

She’s a city slicker.

She’s got that polished, too-bright energy even when she’s muddy and half-frozen.

She’s the kind of woman who knows restaurants by reservation and probably owns matching luggage.

And I know things.

I heard enough last night—little pieces she let slip between jokes and sarcasm and the moments where she got quiet.

She’s not just some random lost woman.

She’s a professional. She doesn’t need to say it.

And I’ve read her column.

I know she has a platform. A blog. Articles about city life. A following.

There are eyes on her. Attention.

And that’s the exact kind of world I ran from.

If she stays, it’s only a matter of time before she posts something by accident.

A picture of the view.

A caption about a mysterious cabin in the Maine mountains.

A little wink to the internet.

And then the mountain gets loud.

Then the world comes climbing up my road with cameras and questions and greedy hands.

No.

I won’t let that happen.

I can’t.

And even if none of that were true—even if she could keep her mouth shut and her followers magically vanished—she still wouldn’t stay.

She doesn’t want this life. Not really.

Not the reality of it.

The cold.

The isolation.

The quiet that turns into a roar after a while.

The way the mountain takes what it wants and doesn’t ask permission.

She’d hate it.

Eventually.

And then she’d hate me for bringing her into it.