Part of me wants to dig deeper and see if I can learn more about him, but we’re already at Uncle Rhodes’ place, and it’s time for me to face the houseful of children that I’ll be living with until Korren loses the challenge.
“That’s the campervan,” I say as my headlights spill across the old thing. All four tires are flat, and there’s a leak in the back, but it seems like a palace compared to where I’m going to be living. “It’s not hooked up to water or anything, so you’ll have to use the outhouse over there.”
“Thanks,” he says. “And where’s the cabin?”
“I’ll show you another day, when it’s light. It’s in those woods back there.”
Korren grabs his bag and slouches off toward the campervan, and I trudge across the weedy grass to Uncle Rhodes’s house. He isn’t home yet, and I’m guessing his kids are asleep—if my tent hadn’t been back at the fire station, I would’ve just slept there another night.
Instead I crack open the door, which squeaks the whole way, and pad up the stairs to what I’m praying is the boys’ room. They’re both snoring loudly, so I lower myself onto the mattress on the floor and lie there, fully clothed and reeking of smoke from the bonfire, cursing all the bad decisions that led me to this moment.
Chapter 5
Korren
Even though I’m exhausted after the late bonfire, an alcohol-fueled nightmare combined with the early sunrise has me wide awake and staring in panic at the roof of the campervan at three o’clock the next morning.
My heart is racing, and I could’ve sworn I heard sirens, even though I know I would’ve been called out if there was something going on in Copper Creek.
Sweat has plastered my shirt to my back, so I sit up and peel it off. All of my clothes are disgusting—I got to the point where I couldn’t afford a visit to the laundromat a few weeks back, and it’s been about the same amount of time since I last showered. It used to be that I could duck into the showers at a swimming pool when I needed it, but when I got low on money and started going longer between washes, the pools started turning me away. My last wash was a swim in some leech-infested lake in northern Minnesota.
Even though they’re nothing alike, the campervan is reminding me too much of the ambulance I used to drive, which is probably what’s messing with me. That and the alcohol. And the fact that I’ve been falling apart for months now and this job is the only thing that might save me.
I’m starving, so I dump out my pack in search of whatever food might be hiding at the bottom. There’s a crumbling energy bar, so I devour it before turning my attention to the rest of my belongings.
I don’t even know if my clothes are salvageable. Everything is wadded up at the bottom of the pack, caked with sweat and grime. For a while I saved aside a set that wasn’t so revolting, butthat’s what I’ve been wearing for the past however many weeks now.
I shove all of the clothes into a pile. I don’t know how long it’ll be until I get my first paycheck, but definitely too long for me to visit a laundromat or replace these. And I’ve got a credit card that’s already maxed out and racking up interest, so I can’t even use that for a few small purchases.
There goes my chance of making a good first impression. The bonfire was fine, because it was dark and everything smelled like smoke anyway, but today it’ll quickly become obvious that I’m basically a homeless bum.
I sort through the rest of my shit without enthusiasm. I’ve got a knife with an antler handle and an engraved leather sheath that my grandfather gave me when I was in boy scouts as a kid, a phone with a cracked screen that’s as useful as a brick since I haven’t been able to pay the monthly bill in ages, a battered copy ofInto the Wildthat might’ve partially inspired my move to Alaska, and a journal where I’ve attempted to write down my thoughts when it’s gotten really bad. Plus a lightweight two-person tent, a tiny camping stove that’s almost out of gas, a cooking pot, a sleeping bag that’s just as filthy as my clothes, and one of those foam sleeping rolls that isn’t nearly as comfortable as the blow-up ones but at least can’t spring a leak. I’d used them for a few long-distance hikes before my life fell apart, but more recently I’ve been living in the tent, hitchhiking from place to place and staying in free campgrounds or random stretches of farmland.
I lean the book and the journal on a dusty shelf, with the knife acting as a bookend, and shove all my clothes into the non-functional shower compartment. I really need to burn them all.
Outside, the sun is fully up now, golden light filtering through the pines all around Chief Rhodes’ property. I pull on a filthy shirt and open the campervan door to look around, curious,since I hadn’t been able to get my bearings in the dark last night. It’s very peaceful here. I can’t see anything of Copper Creek, even though I know we’re central enough to walk to the fire station. There’s the fire chief’s house, a two-story structure with peeling paint and a section of cladding that’s been replaced by plywood, and that rutted dirt road lined by trees must lead back to the town.
My campervan is set on the opposite side of the grassy expanse behind the chief’s house, backed up against the forest, and I can see a trail that might lead past it to the cabin. It’s exactly what I would’ve chosen for myself if I could’ve had anything in the whole town—something private and simple and hidden away.
Ineedto win that cabin. No matter what it takes.
I stop to pull on my leather boots—also a remnant from my hiking days, because my other shoes fell apart a while back—and set out along the trail into the trees, the morning chill raising goosebumps on my arms. It doesn’t feel like four in the morning. The sunlight is so invigorating that I feel like I could climb a mountain before breakfast.
Instead I trudge down the path as it winds deeper and deeper into the trees. I’m starting to think I was mistaken when I finally stumble across the log cabin a full three-minute walk from the campervan.
It’s set in the middle of a clearing, with a stream running past on one side. The structure itself is solid, but when I circle around to the front, I realize the door is hanging off its hinges and the roof has been badly patched with more plywood.
Since it’s not locked, I venture inside, my footsteps creaking on the floorboards.
The whole cabin is caked with dust. One of the windows is broken and taped over with cardboard, and the bedroom is crammed full of boxes and old bikes and camping gear. There’seven a canoe slotted along beside the bed. I edge my way past some of the mess to peer into the bathroom, which looks like it’s connected to plumbing, but my hopes of a surreptitious shower are dashed by the mounds of building supplies stacked there. It looks as though Chief Rhodes bought everything he needed to fix the place up but never got around to it. I can’t even get through the door.
When I turn and start back the way I came, I breathe in a cloud of dust that presses itself into my lungs.
I start coughing violently, but that only stirs up more dust.
Holding my breath, I stumble to the door and let myself out into the cool air, where I cough until I’ve dislodged the grit from my lungs.
Now that I’ve seen that cabin, I fucking need to live there. An opportunity like this isn’t going to come again, and I couldn’t have found a better place if I’d tried.
