"Duke."
"Hi, Duke." The dog licks my wrist. "You're a very good boy. Yes, you are. The best boy on this whole mountain."
Duke wiggles with his whole body. The man on the porch makes a sound. Somewhere between a cough and a protest.
"He doesn't do that."
"He's doing it right now."
"I can see that."
Standing, I brush dirt off my sundress. The orange one. My favorite. My "I quit my soul crushing corporate event planning job, sold my furniture, loaded my car, and drove across the country to figure out what I actually want from my life" dress. Bought it at a thrift shop in Revelstoke two days ago because the color made me happy, which is a reason I've never used to buy anything before.
The man hasn't moved. Still on the porch. Still holding the mug. Still looking at me with an annoyed expression.
"Look," I say, putting on my professional voice, which is the voice I use when I need people to take me seriously despite being five foot seven with a smile my former boss once called "aggressively pleasant." "My GPS sent me up this mountain. It said there was a shortcut to Crimson Hollow. There is not ashortcut to Crimson Hollow. There is a road that goes up, turns to gravel, turns to dirt, then apparently dead ends at the cabin of a man who looks at human beings like an unwanted obligation."
Nothing. Not even a flicker. This man's face is a closed door.
"My gas light came on twelve miles ago. My phone lost signal about twenty minutes before that. So unless you want me to camp in your driveway and talk to your dog until someone drives by, which based on the state of this road could be sometime around the next presidential election, I'd appreciate it if I could use your phone."
He takes a sip of coffee. Slow. Deliberate. Like he's got all the time in the world and plans to use every second of it making me wait.
"Don't have cell service."
"A landline?"
"Satellite phone. Inside."
"May I use it?"
Another sip. "You always tell strangers their porch needs work?"
"Only when it does." Pointing at the bottom step where the wood has splintered along the grain, I raise an eyebrow. "Somebody's gonna catch a nail through their foot."
Something shifts in his expression. Barely. A micro movement around his mouth that could be the beginning of a response or could be gas. Hard to tell with men this committed to being unpleasant.
He sets the mug down. Stands. And now I understand why my body went warm when he was sitting, because standing, he's a wall. Chest, shoulders, arms, all of it built from actual labor, not a gym membership. He moves past me toward the door without making eye contact.
"Phone's on the counter."
Inside, the cabin is clean. Spare. A kitchen with a coffee maker and a cast iron pan. A bookshelf with warped paperbacks. A leather couch facing a stone fireplace. Everything is wood, stone, and function. No photos on the walls. No decorations. Nothing that says "a person lives here and that person has feelings."
The satellite phone sits on the kitchen counter. Bulky, utilitarian. Picking it up, I dial the only number I know by heart.
It rings four times.
"Jada Elaine Williams, you better be calling me from a hospital or a jail because those are the only acceptable reasons I haven't heard from you in three days."
Tasha. My best friend since seventh grade, when she told Darnell Cooper to stop pulling my braids or she'd put him through a window. She was four foot nine. She meant every word.
"I'm alive. I'm on a mountain. My GPS lied to me."
"Where?"
"Somewhere in the Kootenays? British Columbia? I'm using a stranger's satellite phone."
"A stranger's? Jada."
