Page 4 of Challenged By the Mountain Man

"Big one. Don't leave food out."

"Anything else I should know?"

He considers me for a moment, and I can't read his expression at all. "Don't go wandering off-trail after dark. The mountain doesn't care if you're lost."

"I'll keep that in mind."

He nods once, then steps back inside and closes the door.

I stand there for a few seconds longer, staring at the cabin, at the smoke still curling from the chimney, at the dog now visible in the window watching me leave.

Then I turn and walk back down the road.

By the time I get back to my cabin, the sun is starting to dip lower in the sky. The light filters through the trees in long golden shafts, and the temperature is already dropping. I can feel it in the air, the kind of cold that settles in fast once the sun decides to leave.

I prop the front door open to air the place out and start taking stock.

The wood stove looks functional, and there's a stack of firewood on the porch that's dry enough to use. The kitchen has a manual pump for water. I test it, and after a few rusty groans, actual water comes out. Cold, but clean. The bedroom has a bed frame with a mattress that's seen better days but isn't actively falling apart. The bathroom has a composting toilet and a basin.

It's rustic, but it's not unlivable.

I spend the next hour cleaning: sweeping dust, wiping down surfaces, airing out the musty smell as much as I can. I find the source of the animal smell, a family of mice had nested in the couch cushions. I evict them, bag up the nesting material, and make a mental note to buy traps in town tomorrow.

By the time I'm done, the cabin looks less like a crime scene and more like a place a human could theoretically sleep.

I light a fire in the wood stove. It takes a few tries. I'm not great with fires, but eventually it catches, and warmth starts to spread through the small space.

I sit on the porch steps, wrapped in my jacket, and eat a granola bar from my bag.

The sun is almost gone now. The sky is turning that deep, bruised purple that comes right before full dark. The trees are black silhouettes against it, and the air smells like pine and smoke.

It's quiet.

So quiet.

For the first time in three weeks, I don't hear the bank alarm in my head. I don't see the gun. I don't feel the counter pressing into my ribs as I duck down, heart pounding, waiting for the sound of a shot that never came.

I just sit.

And breathe.

And somewhere up the mountain, I imagine the neighbor is doing the same.

I don't know his name.

I don't need to.

But as I sit here in the growing dark, I catch myself wondering what his story is.

Why is he up here? Why did he look at me like I was an intrusion he didn't ask for? Why, for just a second, I thought I saw something in his eyes that looked a lot like the thing I see in mine?

I finish my granola bar, lock the cabin door, and crawl into bed with all my clothes still on.

Tomorrow, I'll go to town. I'll get what I need. I'll make this work.

Tonight, I sleep.

And for the first time in weeks, I don't dream about the gun.