“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Thanks.”
He nods once and then sets off toward his cabin. I’m about to turn into my own when I notice a white cardboard box beside my door that camouflages with the snow. Bending down, I open it and see that it’s filled with small paper-wrapped bricks labeled asfire starters. A confusing twist of gratitude and surprise tightens my chest. There’s no note or explanation, but that only seems to confirm that Forrest left it in here at some point during the day. I hoist the box into my arms, scanning the trail to call out either a thank-you or a retort. But he’s too far away now, so I just stand there in the bitter cold, watching him disappear into the trees.
5MARGOT
I’m not a pacer. When I sit down to write, my butt is basically glued to the chair until my Stretch Your Legs alarm goes off each hour, or until my toes go numb if I’ve forgotten to set it. But not today. Today is my first full day in Alaska, and I’m already a floorboard-scuffing, Internet-starved, hair-pulling writer who is approximately one thousand words short of her two-thousand-word goal.
I came here under the impression that it would be no problem to switch genres. After all, I’ve logged hundreds of hours falling asleep to grisly murder-mystery podcasts (perfectly normal and not at all concerning, thank you very much). But there are still a million gaps in my knowledge, and I didn’t count on not having the world’s collective information at my fingertips. As it is, half of the thousand words I’ve managed to write are bracketed notes like “insert detective lingo here.”
I pull my hands down over my cheeks, blowing out an exhale. As the afternoon has worn on, the cabin has become noticeably colder. Looking for a way to procrastinate, I eye the empty fireplace and the box of fire starters. I bite my lip. Forrest grumped nonsensically at me about catching the flu if I wanted to start afire, but instead of listening, I was far more focused on getting him out of my hair. A potentially regrettable choice in hindsight, but honestly, what’s so hard about building a fire? Cavemen—no, cavepeople—did it, so why can’t I?
I walk over to inspect the area and find a wooden box beside the rack of fire tools. I open it and discover a bunch of twigs and papery bark. Based on every barely rememberedMan vs. Wildepisode I’ve ever zoned out to in various waiting rooms with Savannah, I get the feeling this isn’t potpourri but an essential piece of the fire-starting process. I turn my attention to the grate in the fireplace. Obviously, the logs go there. Gingerly, I slide one of the rough quarters of wood from the stack. I start adding logs and twigs at random, stuffing the little fire-starter bricks between them until the haphazard stack fills out most of the fireplace. After searching around a bit more, I find a long lighter and crouch back down. I smile to myself, thinking about Forrest’s face when he sees a cheerful plume of smoke unfurling from my chimney. That’ll teach him to mansplain fire to me again.
I hold the lighter flame to the stack, waiting for it to catch in several places. The fire-starter bricks light up at once, and I let out a whoop of victory as, soon enough, the whole stack starts crackling with leaping blue and orange flames. Quickly, I take a selfie so I can show Savannah (once I return from exile), that I’ve become a fire goddess. Inordinately pleased with myself and convinced that the gentle crackling will soothe my writer’s block, I strut back to my computer desk and sit down.
Closing my eyes, I take a breath and try to see the world I’m attempting to create through my main character’s eyes. Mentally, I feel her hair whipping at her face as she power-walks across a frozen parking lot to the remote Alaskan precinct she’s flown out to assist. After hours of writer’s block, I’m typing in a blur, words finally flowing, when my eyes begin to sting. I cough. Next to me, the fire roars on merrily, but I notice the air in the cabin is hazyand getting darker with every passing second. That’s when I see the smoke rolling in from the top of the fireplace.
I stand quickly as a thread of panic pulls taut within me. I might not know much about fireplaces, but I’m pretty sure that smoke is supposed to goupthe chimney, not out of it. Quickly, I walk toward a window and open it, but as I do, the fire alarm goes off.
“Shit,” I say, wheezing and running around the cabin and throwing open every window. But the smoke just keeps pouring in and the alarm is still blaring, I can’t stop coughing, and I’m suddenly freezing my tits off as arctic winds whip through the smoky air. I’ve run to the kitchen, desperately searching for a pitcher I can fill with water, when my front door bursts open.
Forrest stands backlit in the swirling smoke like an Avenger, searching the room until he locks eyes with me through the gloom. Without a word, he strides toward me with a face like thunder. He doesn’t hesitate when he reaches me, only stoops and lifts me off the floor. I kick pointlessly. “I can walk!” I croak. “I have legs!”
He ignores me and leaves the cabin as quickly as he came in, unceremoniously setting me down in the snow. “Stay,” he barks, before marching back in without sparing me a glance. I send an I Curse You look at his back and immediately run to a window to see what he’s doing.
Through the smoke, I see Forrest walk purposefully into the kitchen and grab the fire extinguisher hanging prominently on the wall. I cringe so hard I nearly sprain something. How did I miss it? It’s literally the brightest object in the room. I watch as he pulls the pin and aims it at the fire, which has gotten so large that flames are licking the outside of the mantel. He pulls the trigger, and fluffy clouds of foam shoot out, instantly dousing the flames. Apparently, he isn’t done. He walks to the kitchen and grabs an oven mitt. Crouching low near the scorched fireplace, he stickshis arm up the chimney, and there’s a metallic squeaking noise. Like magic, the smoke stops pouring from the fireplace and disappears.
Dread builds within me. He isnevergoing to let me live this down. I think of the other guests—rugged, strong, and capable. I’m willing to bet my frostbitten buns that none of them has ever turned a cabin into a barbecue pit. If it hadn’t been clear enough already that I never should have left L.A., this is my signal. My literal smoke signal. Savannah has obviously overestimated me by a stunning margin. I’m no Taylor Swift. I don’t have what it takes to reinvent myself, especially not in a place like this.
The only problem is, I don’t have much of a choice. What remains of my career is still floating back to earth like charred bits of fireworks. My sister and my agent are expecting me to return with a shiny new manuscript and a blueprint for the rest of my life. And while I can withstand many things, disappointing those two isn’t among them. Which is why, when Forrest comes back through the open door, I tilt my chin up, ready to defend my right as a paying customer to stay in this cabin until I’m smoked like a Christmas ham, even if it’s the last thing I want to do.
“Here,” he says, shoving his arm out toward me.
I look down to see my parka and grab it, teeth chattering. As I pull it on, fully expecting him to begin shouting at me, he does something far, far worse. He steps in close and gently lays both of his rough hands on the sides of my face. The defensive speech I’ve been preparing dies on my lips. His thumbs graze over my cold cheeks, gently pressing in different spots, his dark-green eyes sweeping back and forth across my face. Until, abruptly, he lets go. I blink.
“What the hell was that for?” I ask, telling myself my voice is weak from the smoke and only the smoke.
“Your cheeks are red,” he clips out. “It’s a sign of carbon monoxide poisoning. I had to check.”
“And?”
“And…” He scrubs a hand down his beard, visibly trying to rein something in. It doesn’t work. “And I told you to open the goddamn flue!” he bursts out. “But did you listen?No. Instead, you built a bonfire and almost torched the whole fucking cabin! You’re a danger to yourself and everyone around you.”
I take an involuntary step back, more hurt than I want to admit. “Well, obviously everything’s fine. Congratulations on saving the day, Smokey Bear.”
Forrest takes a step closer, his eyes boring into mine, and this isnotthe moment to notice how perfectly the sharp angles of his beard follow the cut of his cheekbones.
“It’s SmokeytheBear and it’s notfine,” he snaps.
“Prettysure it’s Smokey Bear,” I mumble, but my argument is met with a sound of exasperation as his eyes widen in disbelief.
“You could have passed out. You could have been burned. You could have died, Margot!”
At the sound of my name and the raw worry in his eyes, I hesitate for half a second. But then his cold dismissiveness during dinner and our walk to my cabin comes roaring back to me. He doesn’t care about my well-being at all. This is a self-preservation thing.
“Well, I guess it’s good that I signed your little liability waiver last night. No skin off your nose if I—What was it again? Come to ‘grievous bodily harm and/or death’?”
“That waiver is meant to serve as a warning against all the dangers of this place. I didn’t realize I needed to include the goddamnfireplaceon the list,” he says, jabbing a pointer finger toward the chimney.
