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Whatever comes out of his mouth is muffled by the ringing in my ears. It grows louder and louder as the seconds tick slowly on the clock hanging next to the door.

I can’t lose my job. I can’t. My mind cannot even fathom it. This is all I have.

For the last five years, I have given everything to this job. Days and nights running around the world. Missed birthdays and Christmases. My sister’s wedding! But I would have done the same thing a hundred times over, because it’s what I was made for. I don’t know who I am without my hiking boots and my duffel bag.

If this job ceases to exist, I cease to exist, simple as that.

“Charlee?” Ben’s voice cuts through the noise and snaps me back into the room.

“Okay,” I breathe, pushing my fingers against my scalp. “So all I have to do is film this thing for two weeks, and that’s it? We stay open?”

He nods. “Just two little weeks, Char. And then back to your assignment in Scotland or wherever you want to go.”

“Fine.” I get up. “But this is the last time you’re putting me through this shit, you hear me? I’m the best journalist you have, but next time, just fucking ask first. Instead of forcing my hand.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

I grab my bag and sling it on my back. “I know I am. See you in two weeks, boss.”

And just like that, the fate of two dozen people, my career, my passion, and my raison d’être all rest on my tiny shoulders.

No big deal.

Pine Falls, September 8, 2017

Hey, C.

Yep, you got me. I’m left-handed. I’m a little bit embarrassed about it, if we’re being honest. I haven’t written on paper in a long time and kind of forgot I have to hold my palm up if I don’t want the ink to smear. Or maybe I should just change pens and use a ballpoint instead. I’m very sorry if it made it harder for you to read. I’ll be more careful with the next letters.

I’m impressed that you were able to understand me so well with so little. I guess I’m an open book to you, huh? My nan used to say that a lot when I was younger. Apparently, I have the worst poker face, which isn’t a bad thing, I’d say. Don’t you think? Fewer chances to deceive people like that, at least.

Anyway, yes, I do hold a very special place in my heart for this restaurant. Jerry is actually my great-grandpa’s name. He opened the restaurant with all the money he had, and since then, it’s been a town staple. My grandpa, who’s also named Jerry, took over when his dad died, and I was basically raised among busy waiters and hot stoves. I don’t think there is anywhere else I would call home more than this place.

And my grandpa is still going at it! Still flipping the burgers and doing his famous grilled salmon that tourists go nuts for. It’s quite the place, like you said. Add it to your list of locations to visit if you ever come to BC. I’ll tell him to give you a discount.

Also, what do you mean what did I do to the “poor guy”? Trust me, don’t spend a second feeling sorry for him. That stubborn rascal is a seventy-year-old French jerk who refuses to retire. Don’t be fooled by his sweet charms. He’s been the town’s mailman for decades. One day, he came into my grandparents’ restaurant for lunch, and three days later, he barged in screaming that he got food poisoning from what he ate there. But that’s impossible, because I know my grandparents and the quality of the ingredients they use. The one and only goal of his miserable existence since that day has been to make our lives a living hell. If I’m not out at 8 a.m. ON THE DOT when he comes by, you can bet your ass that my mail won’t be delivered. And if I’m there and manage to grab it, Emile spends five minutes throwing French curses at me (I’ve picked up a few by now). He’s a stubborn and resentful mule.

Anyway. I wouldn’t say the article you sent me this time scared me, but I’m definitely intrigued now. That’s an . . . unusual cat, let’s put it that way. Are you a cat lover?

O.

Attached article

Here are the ten weirdest animals you’ll find in BC (yes, they all exist)

Chapter Four

DEEP END (PAUL’S IN PIECES)

Oliver

The sound of my miter saw drowns out all outside noises and internal thoughts swirling in my head. There’s nothing but the strident melody of the blade cutting through the wood as splinters fly all around before the dust settles on the ground.

I haven’t set foot in my woodshop in months, but the news my boss bombed me with last week got me hopeful for the first time in god knows how long. Hope is a frivolous and dangerous concept. One that I’ve been purposely avoiding for years.

Yet last week, hope felt more like a tangible possibility than it ever had.

And today, as soon as work was done, it was hope that made me open the doors of my woodshop next to my cabin and pick up a project I left behind years ago, resurrecting the dream I thought was long buried.