“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get you inside.”
He tried to laugh, but it came out more like a cough. “You see a Motel 6 around here?”
I looked past him, into the woods. A hundred yards down the dirt road, I spotted the faint outline of a cabin—one of those prefab things, probably used by hunters or hikers too cheap to spring for a proper B&B.
I pointed. “There.”
He followed my finger, then grinned, all teeth and battered hope.
“You always this bossy?” he said.
I helped him walk. Every step he leaned heavier, but neither of us let go.
We left the chasm behind, and I realized I wasn’t afraid of the void anymore. The real risk, the real danger, was that for the first time in my life, I’d found someone who refused to let me vanish.
I wasn’t sure I deserved it. But I wanted it anyway.
***
The cabin was a piece of shit, even by forest hermit standards. One room, half-rotted deck out front, “For Rent” sign duct-taped to the window. Augustine tested the door—locked, obviously—then picked up a loose cinderblock from the steps and put it through the glass like he was dropping the check at a bad diner.
The inside was exactly what you’d expect. The smell of old socks, a weird plastic couch, a threadbare rug stained with God-knows-what, and a stone fireplace choked with ashes. The kitchen was just a countertop, a fridge, and a microwave. Everything about the place screamed last-chance refuge for creeps and drunks.
But it was dry. And there was a pile of firewood, miraculously. I stood in the doorway, shivering so hard I nearly cracked a tooth, while Augustine limped in and startedstacking kindling in the fireplace with the methodical patience of a guy who’d built more than a few arson cases in his time.
He got the fire going after a few attempts, using a bunch of junk mail for tinder. The smoke filled the room with the smell of scorched coupons and sap. I watched him from the other side of the couch, hugging my knees to my chest, unable to decide if I was more afraid of freezing to death or of the man who’d just broken me out of a Leatherback death sentence.
Once the flames caught, he kicked off his boots and peeled off his shirt, moving like every muscle in his body had a vendetta against him. His torso was a horror show: one rib caved in purple, a deep cut above his beltline leaking new blood, another gouge near his armpit bandaged with duct tape and optimism. It was a body built for violence and held together by pure, ugly stubbornness.
He dropped the shirt and turned, catching me staring. “You got a thing for scars?” he said, but the smirk was half-assed.
I tried to shrug, but my teeth were still chattering. “Never seen so many on one guy who was still breathing.”
He laughed—a low, ragged sound. “Takes practice.”
I crept closer to the fire, kneeling in front of it until the pins and needles hit my toes. The heat felt illegal, likethe first time you get away with stealing something and nobody calls you out. Augustine knelt beside me and, without a word, handed over his Zippo.
“You should get out of those wet clothes,” he said. “Otherwise you’ll seize up, and I’ll have to drag you the rest of the way.”
I side-eyed him, waiting for the punchline, but he was serious. His face had that same surgical calm as when he’d killed Rex, only now the weapon was blunt honesty.
I turned away, clumsy, stripping off my jacket, then sweater, then the sodden long-sleeve underneath. The cold made me shake, but in a weird way the exposure felt good—honest, raw, like nothing left to hide. My bra was so soaked it was basically pointless, but I left it on. Even in a cabin in the ass-end of nowhere, I wasn’t ready for that kind of naked.
Augustine handed me a ratty old blanket he’d found in the bedroom closet. I wrapped up and perched on the rug, watching him wipe blood from his side with a gas station napkin.
“You need stitches,” I said.
He glanced at the wound, then back at me. “You a doctor?”
“No. But I spent enough time in ERs to know when someone’s fucked up.”
He just grinned and set to work cleaning the gash. I watched the way his hands moved—deliberate, steady, like he was field-dressing a deer or maybe himself. When he pulled off the tape, I winced. The skin beneath was ugly, but not as bad as I’d expected.
“Hold still,” I said, then crawled over and knelt next to him, blanket trailing behind me. I pressed a wadded-up paper towel to the cut, ignoring the hot stickiness of his blood. He smelled like smoke, rain, and a chemical tang that made me lightheaded.
He let me work, barely even flinching. “Where’d you learn first aid?” he said.
“Girl Scouts.”
