This is meditation for me. The only thing that quiets my mind better than alcohol. When I'm working, I don't think about the bodies. Don't hear their screams. Don't see their faces.
I'm making a knife. Not because I need one. I have a dozen already, but because my hands need something to do. The bladeis taking shape under my hammer, the edge forming with each strike.
I built this forge two years ago when the nightmares got so bad I couldn't sleep. Taught myself blacksmithing from an old manual I found in an abandoned ranger station, trial and error and burned hands until I figured it out. Now I make things. Knives, hooks, hinges, nails. Practical things. Things that serve a purpose.
I sell them sometimes, on the rare occasions I go into town. Leave them at the trading post with no name attached, take the cash they leave for me. It's enough for the supplies I can't make or hunt myself.
The steel glows orange-red. I plunge it into the water barrel and steam hisses up in a cloud.
That's when I hear footsteps.
My whole body goes rigid. The bear snaps awake instantly, alert and focused. I know those footsteps, lighter than they should be for someone moving through the forest but determined. Confident.
No.
She wouldn't. I told her not to come back. Explicitly. Threateningly. But the footsteps keep coming, and then she's there, pushing through the trees into the small clearing where my garage stands open to the morning air.
Autumn West. Looking exactly like she did yesterday except her braid is neater and she's wearing a different shirt, this one dark green and already marked with sweat. Her backpack is smaller, a day pack instead of the full hiking bag.
And she's smiling.
Actually smiling, at me, the man who told her to leave and never return.
"Good morning!" she calls out, like we're neighbors, like this is normal.
I stare at her, hammer still in my hand, trying to process what I'm seeing.
"I told you not to come back," I finally manage. My voice comes out rougher than usual, raw from not speaking and from the smoke.
"You did," she agrees cheerfully, crossing the clearing toward the garage. "But I couldn't leave without thanking you properly. You saved my butt yesterday. The ranger station was exactly where you said, and, oh my God, are you a blacksmith?"
Her eyes have gone wide, darting around the garage. Taking in the forge, the anvil, the tools hanging on the wall, the racks of finished pieces.
"That's amazing," she breathes. "I've never seen an actual working forge before. Is this all self-taught? How hot does the fire get? What are you making?"
The questions tumble out rapid-fire. She moves closer, craning her neck to see the knife I just quenched.
"Stop," I raise my voice. "Don't come any closer."
She freezes immediately, and I see hurt flash across her face before she masks it.
"The forge is dangerous," I say, softer but no less firm. "You can't just walk into a working blacksmith shop. Hot metal, sparks, fire, you'll get hurt."
"Oh." She looks down at herself, then back at the forge. "You're right. Sorry. I wasn't thinking. I just got excited."
She backs up several steps, giving me space. But she doesn't leave.
I set the hammer down and move away from the forge, putting myself between her and the heat. Up close, in daylight, she's even prettier than I thought. Her hazel eyes are bright with genuine enthusiasm, no trace of the fear from yesterday.
She should be afraid.
"Why are you here?" I demand.
"I told you. To thank you." She swings her pack around and unzips it. "I brought offerings. Chocolate, fruit, some of those fancy granola bars from the health food store in town. I didn't know what you'd like, so I got a variety."
She pulls out the items as she lists them. Two chocolate bars, a bag of apples, another of oranges, a box of granola bars. She sets them on the workbench like gifts at an altar.
"I don't want your food," I say.
