That’s it.
The mist drops. Everything goes red.
With a roar, I hurl myself at him.
He reacts fast—flinging up his left arm as my right comes down with the tire lever. The blow glances off his shoulder with a hard crack instead of smashing his skull, and he roars in pain, staggering back.
Then he turns fully, eyes blazing.
“Ah, so this is the ‘mountain man’ they told me about.” He sneers. “Look at you. Filthy. Been playing in the river? You’re no mountain man. You’re just another asshole to put in his place. Now come here, so I can deal with you properly…”
As he speaks, he draws a long, ugly knife from his belt and advances, stance wide, muscles coiled, smile vicious.
I glance left and right. The bushes are thick. No room to move.
Knife versus tire lever.
One of us isn’t walking away.
But we’ve both forgotten about Sierra.
As he steps forward, she lashes out with her bound legs, catching him clean and sending him crashing sideways. The knife spins from his hand—there’s a splash as it disappears into the black water of the pond.
I’m on him before he can recover.
The tire lever comes down hard on his right arm. There’s a sickening crack.
He howls.
I hit him again—this time with my fist—driving it into his face.
Once.
Twice.
He goes limp.
I’m already moving, dropping the lever and rushing to Sierra as she writhes on the ground.
“You alright?” I gasp.
“Of course I’m alright,” she giggles, her voice slurred, still thick with whatever he gave her. “I told him he was making a mistake coming out here. Told him he was making a mistake… but he wouldn’t listen.” She smiles up at me. “I knew you’d come for me, Talon.”
Even in the fading light, I can see her smile.
“Now untie me and put me to bed,” she murmurs. “I am very, very sleepy.”
Sierra
TWELVE MONTHS LATER
Morning light spills through the wide kitchen windows, catching on the steam rising from the coffee mugs lined up along the counter. The retreat is already alive—quiet voices from the meditation room, the soft thud of footsteps on wooden floors, the distant hum of someone opening the front gate for the day’s arrivals.
Home.
I lean against the counter, stretching out the stiffness in my back as I glance down at the tablet in my hand. Today’s schedule is full—three physio sessions before lunch, two after, and a group mobility class in the late afternoon. A year ago, I wouldn’t have believed I’d be here, running a practice out of a mountain retreat, but now it feels… inevitable. Like I was always meant to find my way here.
“You’re working too hard again.”