CHAPTER 4
ASH
Carpoolingto The FI Escape is brutal.
Being the last pickup means contorting into the back-back middle seat of Bobo’s Cheeriowagon. I’ve never met her, but Cheerios on the floor and gouges in the ceiling fabric suggest she moonlights as an Uber driver for cereal-munching monster babies. On The FI Escape message board she called this “a fun, low-cost way to build community.” So far it feels like a hostage situation.
The woman in the passenger seat dominates the conversation with her children’s summer camp anecdotes, leaving six strangers to stare out the windows at Bay Bridge traffic or pretend to care.
I instinctively reach for my phone and swipe to my spreadsheet. The twenty-one-year countdown now glares back at me, a stark reminder of how far my freedom date has slid. I flip to a different tab and spend the next couple of hours lost in hypothetical scenarios, tweaking rates of return, and searching for a combination that will undo the damage from Query’s HR department.
Sustaining above-average market returns is a fantasy, which makes my side hustle, the podcast, my best hope. I need morelisteners. More ad dollars. This retreat is my shot to network, to pitch the show without sounding like I’m pitching it.
If I can grow the podcast twentyfold, maybe it’ll make up for the hit I took at Query.
I’d also be riding a unicorn to this retreat instead of being crammed into Bobo’s Cheeriowagon.
Whether it’s a daydream or Bobo’s sudden braking, a jolt yanks me back to reality and the wall of greenery filling the back window.
“Philbrook Campground!” Bobo announces. I wait for the first row of back seats to empty before unfolding myself and thanking her for saving me a car payment, gas, and insurance.
The pine-scented air clears my head. Two steps onto the dirt parking lot and I see the real draw in a screensaver-perfect lake reflecting the surrounding pines, distant mountains, and a single white puff of cloud.
I’m no naturalist, but the crisp air, the brilliant blue sky, and the sudden quiet are all so different from the city, my phone, and my life that one deep breath thaws the ice block in my chest a little.
This isn’t a vacation, I remind myself. It’s an investment. A few strong conversations could double our downloads. One connection could unlock real sponsors.
I need to check in, and a multicolored sign points the way:
Bear Wallow Trail ←
Lake Circle ← →
The Fieldhouse ↑
Fieldhouse it is. I leave the other arrivals to their explorations and follow the path, eager to connect with people who actually get it. The free ticket is a small consolation for everything that’s happened, a reminder thatSkinny Fat FIREhas potential.
As I leave the parking lot, the sun’s warmth gives way to cool shade. The path winds deeper into the forest. The fieldhouse appears ahead, a rustic wooden structure framed by branches. Sunlight pours through the canopy, dappling the ground, and I tilt my face up to let warmth keep thawing the ice block in my chest.
My foot snags on something. “Oof. Whoa!” My backpack yanks me forward, and I slam down on top of… someone. A solid chest, a shoulder. The corner of something hard and flat digs into my ribs.
My grunt is met with a louder squawk. “Whoa, watch it!”
I scramble to my feet, which only makes it worse. My hand slips on something slick, and I shove down harder on the guy I just flattened.
“Sorry!” My eyes catch on an inexplicable wet rainbow gash sliced across my forearm. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“You think?” the man replies, throwing his hands up in exasperation.
He’s still on the ground, paintbrush clenched, surrounded by a small blanket, an empty canvas, a wooden box of paints, and a palette now holding the rest of the impromptu artwork from my arm.
“I’m so sorry. Hope I didn’t ruin your work.” Heat climbs my neck as I take in the scene. “I can’t believe I didn’t see you. You’re right in the middle of the trail.”
“Not exactly hiding,” he says, one hand mixing paints, the other sweeping out to the surrounding forest.
Wiping my arm only smears the paint further. I’m going to have to wash it off at the fieldhouse.
“You know a retreat’s coming through here soon,” I say. “There’ll be loads of people coming from the parking lot.”
