So I haul equipment for Graham in the mornings and assist Ewan with crosscut demonstrations after lunch. I help Brady with his climbing gear and drag logs out of the pond with Rourke at the end of the day. I arrive before anyone else, except Conner, and leave after everyone's gone. I don't complain about the work. I don't talk about myself. I just do the thing, and do it well, and hope that's enough.
It's not a strategy. It's the only language I speak.
Earlier in the week, I noticed the splitting station's chopping blocks are chewed to hell—cracked and uneven from a season of abuse. I don't ask permission. I just come in early the next morning, select three cedar rounds from the timber supply, and shape new blocks before anyone else is awake. I set them in place, sweep the chips, and am drinking coffee in the dining hall by the time Graham arrives and notices.
He doesn'tsaythank you. He inspects each block, tests the surface with his thumbnail, and nods once. Then he pours his coffee and sits down across from me and says absolutely nothing, which I'm learning is Graham's version of approval.
I helped Rourke reset the log-rolling pond after a group of corporate guys in matching polos spent an hour falling into the water and laughing about it. Most of them couldn't balance for ten seconds. Rourke was patient with every single one…cracking jokes, adjusting their stance, and somehow making grown men feel like champions for standing upright on a floating log.
"You're quiet," Rourke had said, hauling a birch log back into position. His arms are sleeved in Celtic knot tattoos and he handled the timber as if it weighed nothing. "The strong-and-silent thing works for Brady, and often Graham, but they've had decades of practice.You'regoing to need a personality eventually."
I huffed out a laugh. "I have a personality."
"Do you, now?" He grinned—all Irish charm and no malice. "Because from where I'm standing, you've got a work ethic and a five-word vocabulary. Both admirable. But neither are much fun around a campfire."
I gave him half a smile. "Give me time."
"Sure, mate." He slapped my back as he passed. "You're doing grand, by the way. In case nobody's told you."
Nobodyhadtold me. I stood there for a second with pond water soaking through my boots, holding on to those words harder than I should’ve.
My uncle used to say something similar.You're doing grand, kid.Different accent, but it had the same weight.
I hadn’t thought about it in years.
Then, my eyes began to burn as I tried not to feel too much about a throwaway comment from an Irishman I’d known for four days.
Thursday morning, a family of four shows up for the axe-throwing demonstration. Mom, dad, and two kids—a boy around twelve who's buzzing with excitement, and a girl, maybe nine, who looks like she'd rather be doing anything else.
Graham runs the session, and I'm assisting, which mostly means I retrieve axes, check targets, and make sure nobody loses a finger.
The boy picks it up fast. He’s got a natural arm. Graham nods at him, which from Graham is a standing ovation. The girl, though…is struggling. The axe is too heavy for her grip, and after two throws that barely make it halfway to the target, her lip starts trembling.
I crouch down next to her, knees in the dirt, so we're eye-level. "Hey. Can I show you something?"
She looks at me with big skeptical eyes. Behind us, her mom is hovering.
"The axe is fighting you because you're trying to muscle it. But here's a secret—" I pick up the lighter hatchet we keep for younger guests. "It's not about strength. It's about letting go at the right time. Like releasing a basketball. You ever play basketball?"
She shakes her head.
"Okay, bad example. How about skipping a rock?"
She gives me a tiny nod.
"Same thing. You're not throwing the rock. You're letting it fly." I hand her the hatchet, adjust her grip—three fingers, thumb on top—and stand behind her, guiding her arm through the motion slowly. "Feel that? The weight does the work. You just aim and release."
She throws. The hatchet hits the outer ring of the target with a satisfyingthunk.
Her face cracks open into the biggest grin I've seen all week. "I did it!"
"Yeah, you did." And I'm grinning, too.
The mom mouthsthank youat me over her daughter's head. The girl throws six more times, hitting the target on four of them, and by the end she's giving her brother shit about his technique.
Graham watches the whole thing from the side, beefy arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable.
Later, as we're cleaning up, he says, "You're good at that."