"Network's looking. But law enforcement's coordinating protection. You're safe."
She writes again.For how long?
"As long as it takes."
She absorbs this. Doesn't write anything else. Just stands, shoulders her backpack, follows me out to the truck.
The drive back to the cabin, I run the same counter-surveillance. Different route, check mirrors, watch for tails. Traci sits quiet, watching the buildings give way to forest again.
The next couple days follow the established pattern. Morning perimeter checks, breakfast she picks at, drive to Helena's clinic for medical check-ins, drive home, Traci disappearing into reading or window-watching. Routine building structure around the threat we're not discussing but both know exists.
At the next clinic visit, Helena reports Traci's physical healing is progressing well. Bruising almost gone, defensive wounds fully closed, no signs of infection. Psychologically, she's exactly where Helena expects—hypervigilant but engaging more with her environment.
"She wrote me three full sentences yesterday," Helena says while Traci's in the bathroom. "Asked about the healing timeline for nerve damage. That's problem-solving for future planning. It's a good sign."
"She asked me if we're safe. Then asked how long."
"What did you tell her?"
"Truth. As long as it takes."
Helena nods approval. "Honesty builds trust faster than reassurance. She's been lied to enough. Even hard truths are better than comfortable lies."
The next morning I'm pulling on cold-weather gear in darkness. Traci's still asleep. Perimeter check before she wakes has become routine, but today something feels different. Can't name it. Just that instinct that kept me alive in places where mistakes got people killed.
Outside, frost coats everything. Pine needles glitter silver in moonlight. My breath clouds white, dissipates. Cold seepsthrough insulated layers—temperature dropped overnight. Maybe ten degrees. Ground's frozen solid, crunches under boots with each step.
I start at the north approach. Sight lines clear to the tree line, good distance of open ground. Anyone coming from this direction, I'd see them before they got close.
East perimeter. I scan the forest for movement. Darkness and stillness. Nothing moving.
South approach, toward the main road. Fresh tire tracks in the frost-covered dirt. Wide wheelbase. Truck or SUV. Could be Zeke's patrol—they run past regularly. But the tracks don't follow the patrol pattern. They pull off close to the cabin, then loop back.
Someone stopped. Looked. Left.
I crouch down, study the impressions. Tread pattern's all-terrain. Different from the tracks I've seen from Zeke's patrols over the past few days. I pull out my phone, snap photos, send them to Zeke with timestamp.
West side brings me back around. Densest forest coverage here. Hardest approach vector but also best concealment for anyone trying to get close unseen.
But past the tree line, there's a broken branch. Fresh break—sap still sticky, wood pale where it snapped. Wildlife most likely. Moose break branches at this height. Or someone on foot. Can't tell from this alone.
I photograph it. Mark the GPS coordinates. Don't touch anything else.
Back at the cabin, I log everything. Tire tracks. Branch. Timing. Maybe nothing. Maybe reconnaissance.
Either way, someone's been close enough to the cabin that I'm adding trip wire alerts on the access road. And next time I do perimeter, I'm going armed with more than just a sidearm.
Inside, Traci emerges to the smell of brewing coffee. Oversized sweatshirt, breakfast routine, another day. She finishes her entire breakfast. Doesn't leave anything on the plate. When I comment on it, she just shrugs like it's not significant.
It is. Means her body's finally convinced her brain that she's not going to starve. Progress.
At the clinic, Helena runs the usual examination. Vitals stable, healing progressing, psychological state about right for someone a few weeks past hell. When she asks about nightmares, Traci writes in her notebook.
Sometimes. But I wake up and remember where I am.
"That's excellent," Helena says. "Means your brain is learning the difference between what happened and where you are now."
Traci writes again.When do I have to testify?
