I swing my legs off the bed and reach for my boots.
Daniel mentioned the storm-damaged trail when we ran into each other in town two days ago. Said the town usually clears it after a blow like that, but half the volunteers were tied up with summer jobs.
I told him I’d lend a hand.
The chainsaw waits in the back of the truck.
Looks like it’s time to go find Daniel.
The folded site permit from the town office is still tucked under the saltshaker on the little table. The map of local trails is still spread out where I left it three mornings ago, when I told myself I’d take one last hike before heading out.
Yesterday’s toast crumbs still cling to the plate in the sink.
I sit up slowly, the RV rocking a little under the shift of my weight, and rub a hand across my face.
Through the windshield the trees glow soft green in the early light. Somewhere down the road a truck door slams, followed by the low rumble of an engine heading toward the highway. Most places, I’m packed and rolling before a month has passed. Here, somehow, I’m still parked in the same spot.
And I’m not entirely sure why. My laptop waits on the table beneath a worn copy of Lighthouses of Maine, its spine cracked from use. A damp towel hangs over the passenger seat. Through the front windshield, trees crowd close, green and still in the early light.
A temporary life should look less lived in.
This place has started gathering me in.
I fill the kettle, set it on the cooktop, and brace one hand on the counter while I watch the morning unroll outside. Sunlight reaches between the trees in thin gold bars. Somewhere fartherdown the access road, a dog barks. Voices carry faintly. Gulls screech.
Town’s already moving.
By the time the kettle whistles, I’ve shaved, dressed, and pulled the side window open another few inches. Fresh air rolls in, cool enough to wake the rest of me. I drink my coffee black, standing at the little sink in a T-shirt and jeans, and watch a squirrel make a nuisance of itself around the picnic table outside.
My phone buzzes against the counter.
For one stupid, reflexive second, my body reacts before my mind does. A small tightening low in my gut. The old instinct.
Check it. Move.
I set my mug down and reach for the phone.
The screen lights with the group chat icon I still haven’t muted and still haven’t left.
Engine 4.
A photo loads first. Three men in turnout pants and station t-shirts stand around the scarred kitchen table at Station Four. One of them holds up a spatula like a weapon while another flips him off. Coffee mugs. The ugly dent in the cabinet over the sink. Morales in the background, blurred and laughing.
Below it, messages roll in.
Someone complains about Ramirez burning the eggs again.
Someone else asks who swapped out his good flashlight.
Then:
Shift changed. Don’t be late, assholes.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
The kettle ticks softly behind me as it cools. Outside, a gull cries somewhere over the trees. Pine-scented air moves through the cracked window, fresh and clean and nothing like diesel, coffee, damp gear, and the stale heat of the station after a bad call.
They’re carrying on like they always do.
