Page 200 of In Somnis

The air smells like sap and sawdust, and Marcus is bitching at me about something—probably my form, my attitude, or the fact that I exist.

“You’re not hooking it right,” he says, gesturing at the chains I’m securing around a massive log. “You want this thing rolling when we lift it?”

“I’ve done this a hundred times,” I mutter, tugging the chain tighter. “Maybe focus on your own shit.”

“My shit is making sure you don’t get yourself killed doing stupid⁠—”

“I’m fine, Boss.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but the radio on his hip crackles with static, and someone’s voice cuts through. He turns away, pressing it to his ear, and I go back to the chains.

The log is huge. Old growth, probably standing here longer than either of us has been alive. My hands work automatically, muscle memory taking over as I thread the chain through the hook and pull it taut. The metal bites into my palms, but I don’t really feel it.

Above us, the crane groans as it shifts position, and Marcus waves his hand in some signal I’m supposed to understand. I step back, giving the log space as the chains go tight.

Everything happens fast after that.

The crane lifts, the log rises about three feet off the ground, and then something snaps. Not the chain, but something higher up, something in the rigging, maybe, or the anchor point, I don’t know. I don’t have time to figure it out because the log is swinging, pivoting mid-air as if it’s been let off a leash.

“Move!” Marcus shouts, but I’m already moving, my boots slipping in the wet dirt.

Not fast enough.

The log comes down hard, slamming into my lower back with a force. I go down face-first into the ground, the weight pressing me flat, stealing every molecule of air from my lungs.

But there’s no pain.

I blink against the dirt, my cheek pressed into the cool earth, and I try to process that. A log this size should have broken me in half and crushed my spine into powder. I should be screaming through every nerve ending I have.

But I feel nothing.

Huh?

“Ridge!” Marcus is there, crouching beside me, hands on the log as if he thinks he can lift it himself. “Fuck, fuck, okay… the crane broke. Maybe I can… hold on.”

He pulls, grunting with effort, but the thing doesn’t budge. Not even an inch.

“I can’t…” He’s panting now, panic climbing into his voice. “I need help. I’m getting help. Don’t move, okay? Just… don’t move.”

I would if I could, dickhead.

Marcus crashes through the underbrush, leaving me pinned under several thousand pounds of Douglas fir with nothing but the sound of my own breathing for company.

Except…

The back of my neck prickles, that feeling of being watched, even though the forest is silent around me. I try to pull myself forward, digging my fingers into the dirt and dragging, but my legs won’t cooperate. They’re simply there. Dead weight. I reach out with my right hand, trying to find purchase on a root, a rock, or anything, and that’s when I see it.

Three fingers.

I stare at my hand—at the place where my pinky and ring finger should be—and my brain stutters to a stop…

… I’m dreaming.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

The colors deepen, the sounds crystallize, and the pain hits like a freight train.

It explodes up my spine, white-hot and all-consuming, radiating out from the point of impact until every nerve in my body is screaming. I suck in a breath that turns into a scream, then another, my hands clawing uselessly at the dirt as my back tries to tear itself apart.