Her whole face lights up. "I knew it! I knew there was a story here. How did you learn? Where did you get the equipment? Do you sell the pieces or just make them for yourself?"
"No," I say firmly.
"No what?"
"No story. No interview. No vlog content. I answered one question because you brought food, not because I want to be featured on whatever channel you run."
The light dims a little, but she doesn't look offended. "Fair enough. Off the record, then. Just conversation. Do you sell the pieces?"
"Sometimes."
"Where?"
"Trading post in town. They don't ask questions."
"The one on Route 9? Run by the old guy with the eye patch?"
Despite myself, my mouth twitches. "That's the one."
"My mom buys jam there. He makes it himself from blackberries he grows out back." She picks up one of the apples and polishes it on her shirt. "Small world. Or small town, I guess."
She takes a bite, the crunch loud in the relative quiet. I've let the forge die down, and without the roar of fire and clang of hammer, the forest sounds filter in. Birds, wind, the distant gurgle of the stream.
"You're from Blackwater Falls," I say. Not a question.
"Born and raised. You?"
"No."
"Where are you from?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Everything matters," she says. "That's what makes life interesting."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to explain that for me, for what I am, the less that matters the better. The smaller my world, the safer everyone else is.
She finishes the apple and tucks the core into her pack. She leaves no trace, good hiker habits, then picks up an orange.
"I should go," she says, but she doesn't move. "I'm sure you want to get back to work. And I have footage to edit from yesterday. I got some great shots of the clearing, but don't worry, I deleted the ones with you in them like you asked."
Something in my chest eases slightly. "Good."
"Yeah." She peels the orange. "I figured you had your reasons for being up here alone. Didn't seem right to broadcast your location to thousands of people without permission."
Thousands. She has thousands of followers. The thought makes my skin crawl.
"Here." She holds out half the orange.
"I don't—"
"You've been working in front of a hot forge for hours. You're dehydrated. Eat the orange."
It's not a request. She pushes it into my hand, and my fingers close around it. The fruit is cool, refreshing after the heat of the forge. I tell myself I'm only eating it to make her leave faster.
It's the best thing I've tasted in five years.
We stand there in the morning sun, eating orange slices in silence. Her pack is at her feet, the chocolate and granola bars still sitting on my workbench. She's humming something under her breath, some tune I don't recognize, completely comfortable despite my obvious discomfort.
