“What’s that?”
“Don’t get eaten by a bear out there.”
I roll my eyes at her, but the moment she turns the lock behind her, I pick up my phone, tap over to the browser, and searchchance of bear attack in pacific northwest.
The results are not completely promising.
CHAPTER 2
ROWAN
Iwake up to the quickbeep, beep, beepof the trail cameras, and even after all this time, it takes me a moment to figure out where I am.
When I open my eyes, I expect to be wrapped in the deep gray, luxury sheets Hannah picked out. To see the dim shine of her hair in the low light of the wake-up lamp, just emulating the first rays of morning light.
I almost expect to smell her nighttime lotion, to feel the shift of her body as she turns and rises out of bed, standing up and walking to the bathroom without a word to me. And I almost expect to need to convince myself that she thinks I’m still asleep.
But none of that happens.
Instead, I open my eyes to a large pink tongue in my face and the particular stink of dog breath filling my nostrils when Cheese drags her tongue up and over my cheek, leaving behind a streak of thick saliva.
“Ah, come on,” I grouse, but I’m laughing, pushing her away and sitting up as she bounds around me, her paws sinkinginto the mattress in her excitement. Instead of a scientifically programmed wake-up lamp casting light over the room, there’s actual pale-yellow sunlight creating a perfect square around my curtains, hinting at the morning that lies beyond the window.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter, as Cheese basically nudges me out of the bedroom and into the living room, then right out the front door. I stand on the front porch in my boxers, shivering a bit in the early morning air.
While it’s not exactly the Rockies or Appalachia, the Cascade Range is still just as breathtaking. The view right outside my place isn’t particularly inspiring: the overhang on the door keeps me from looking up, and the sub-terrain design means I’m looking at the bottom four feet of the trunks around me.
But if I went out onto the back porch, I’d be looking out at the valley, just a few steps away from a plummet. Interesting enough to keep me sane, hidden enough to keep me safe.
It’s mid-September, so the mornings are crisp. Fog rolls in over the trees down in the valley. The mornings are a precursor to the fall, and eventually the impossible arctic freeze of winter. But, by the middle of the day, it will be hot enough to get balmy, bugs humming around the trees.
I’ve had a lot of time to get used to the changing seasons, to become attuned to the temperatures, the look of the sky, the feeling of the air around me.
Tipping my head up, I take in the sky now and feel a certainty down in my bones that a storm is coming later tonight. Five years ago, I’d be waking up to the sound of an automated personal assistant rattling off the standard wake-up routine — news, weather, stocks. I’d be shuffling into the shower andlistening to an HBR or Tech Week article via that same personal assistant, then drinking a bottled green smoothie on the way to the office.
Now, Cheese does her business, and she and I head back inside the cabin for our morning coffee and bacon. Well, I get coffee. We both get bacon.
I finish up some of the spinach I harvested from the garden yesterday, ripping it into pieces and dropping it into an omelet. Then I use the last of my fresh cream and fold the whole thing together.
Luckily, Pete is coming today. It’s one thing to keep my own chickens, but I decided a cow or pig would be too much. I don’t eat processed meat often, but when I do, I usually save it for the day Pete is coming to restock me.
As always, my anxiety rises at the thought of him making his way out here. At the thought of who might be following him, and if he’s going through all the proper protocols.
I know he thinks I’m paranoid. I’d argue that paranoia with good reason is simply caution. And I have plenty of good reasons.
While I wait for Pete to make his appearance, I do my chores. Feeding the chickens, gathering up the eggs. Checking the water barrels and the filtration devices, opening up the smoker to check on the fish I started last night. It smells awful, but when I pick off a piece and pop it in my mouth, it’s tasty.
Because the first of the month is coming, I run through all my standard, monthly tasks. Disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling the shotgun by the front door, which is not for use against people but instead a security blanket against the slimpossibility of a grizzly bear wandering up onto my property, maybe smelling that smoking fish and wanting a bit for himself.
Just after midday, I hear the low hum of an approaching engine and head inside to check the cameras, where I see Pete’s old hybrid chugging up the side of the mountain dutifully.
I meet him out in front of the property, watching as his car pulls up just outside the cabin. Pete’s red hair practically glows from the front seat, and even from here I can see the freckles on his arms as he puts the car into park and cuts the engine.
He’s already rolling his window down when I get to his door, leaning down and peering in at him.
When I first did this, I was wary of letting anyone in. But it proved too difficult to get the thyroid medicine my body unfortunately needs to function, and so Pete was enlisted, wrapped up in NDAs, and given a strict, specific set of protocols to follow.
“Did you take the back way out of town?”
