My station appears between the trees minutes later, bathed in gentle morning light. Before I step onto the porch, I pause—hand braced on the railing, eyes drifting to the tree line one more time.
The forest stands still.
Waiting.
Watching.
Warmth brushes the back of my neck—a breeze, maybe. Or something else.
I swallow. “It’s just the wind,” I tell myself, and step inside.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BOONE
I tellmyself I’m not going to check on him again.
Truly. Honestly. Hand-to-the-ancient-cedars honest.
He’s fine. The rangers got him back safely. He made it to the station without tripping over his own shadow. He hasn’t fainted or face-planted or wandered directly into another bear’s personal bubble. He’s breathing. He’s upright. He’s functioning at approximately 70 percent of standard human capacity.
That’s enough. I tell myself that three times. Then a fourth. By the fifth, my feet are already moving.
I break my own rule without even trying.
The forest feels taut today, as though every tree is holding its breath.
I stay to the high ground as I move. Always upslope, always behind denser brush, always careful. At least, Iintendto be careful.
Elias’s station sits quiet in the late-afternoon light—roof glinting faintly between the trees, chimney pipe puffing the last remnants of a fire. There’s no smoke now, just heat ghosts rising off metal.
I get close enough to see him through the window.
He’s sitting at the little table, elbows braced, rubbing his temples with both hands. He looks exhausted and pale. Clearly he’s still hurting. But he’s awake. Alive. That should be enough reassurance for me to turn around and leave.
Instead, I circle the clearing, instinctively checking for threats—bears, cougars, loose roots, traitorous rocks, holes in the ground, unstable trees. Then I glance at the exterior structure out of habit.
Two things catch my attention immediately. The solar panel mount on the roof is crooked. And the railing on his porch has been cracked since at least last fall.
I didn’t notice either before his injury. Or I noticed but chose not to think about them. Because thinking about small dangers around Elias is a fast track to me pacing the woods at night like a fretful grandmother.
I sigh. Fine. I’ll fix them. Quietly. Quickly. Without being seen.
It’s not forhim, obviously. It’s for my own peace of mind. And if I happen to improve his living conditions… well… that’s just a side effect.
I scale the roof in three silent movements. The metal groans under my weight, soft and irritated, but not loud enough to alarm. I stabilize the panel, tighten the mount, reroute a loose cable.
Then I jump down—lightly, silently—and crouch to fix the porch railing. It’s a clean split, one bolt sheared off, so an easy fix. I pull a spare bolt from my utility pouch. (I carry extras. For reasons. No one needs to know.)
I’m almost done when?—
Crack.
My elbow bumps the bucket of tools I brought yesterday to clean out a storm gutter. It tips, and a wrench falls, hitting theporch with a clang that echoes through the entire forest like a gunshot.
I lock in place, while inside, Elias goes still. There’s a beat of silence before footsteps echo and the door swings open. “Hello?” he calls, voice wary.
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.