Page 258 of These Tears

My body locks up.

Any vehicle loud enough to reach the yard from here is definitely headed for the cabin. The estate is so vast that I’ll hear it before it reaches the clearing.

Since the Hunt, Elias has insisted I carry a small pistol whenever I work outside alone – a weapon I have no lawful business possessing and whose weight burns against my hip more from that knowledge than the metal.

A pick-up noses into view along the track. Not Anders’ bright-red one.

My heart goes to my throat and my hand to the holster at my thigh as I move closer to the cabin and hide behind a corner of the back wall.

Inga doesn’t like trucks, so it’s not her. It’s none of her brothers’ either. Not anyone I know well enough for my gut to unclench.

The car crawls towards the yard with caution, tyres grinding over thaw-softened earth, and every lesson Elias has hammered into me lights up at once.

Do not stand in the open. Do not let them see fear before they see steel. Get behind cover, keep the cabin between you and the road.

My thumb finds the safety of the gun and flicks it off with a small click that seems too loud against the sound of blood rushing in my ears.

Elias’ voice follows right after: if someone comes for the door, aim centre mass and shoot until they stop moving.

My throat works around a knot of panic as my eyes follow the truck until it’s close enough for me—

It stops.

So do my lungs.

Elias jumps out of the driver’s seat.

Relief hits so hard it almost folds my knees.

I stand there with my pulse still trying to break out through my throat.

I cannot keep living like this forever – measuring sounds by threat, sleeping with escape routes and learning when to shoot a human being before they cross the threshold.

I don’t know how to tell Elias that without making it sound like an accusation.

How does one complain about fear to a man who has spent his whole life treating it as part of the forecast?

‘Hey!’ I call as I click the safety back on.

His gaze follows the motions while I holster the weapon.

He gives the gesture a small, approving nod. Then his eyes snag on my shaky fingers, and the nod dissipates.

In quiet recovery, he goes to the back of the truck where a large square shape sits beneath a blanket. And stops.

I eye the black truck properly now.

New.

The covered square in the back sits too solidly beneath the blanket, and something about the way he rests his hand on it makes the hairs at the back of my neck rise.

‘So…’ he starts, ‘there weren’t any goats worth taking,’ he says slowly, easing me towards the edge as he taps against the truck. ‘And sheep are worse up here than people think.’

‘What did you do?’ I ask warily.

‘They need more fencing, more rotation, more protection from predators,’ he continues with vague gestures of his other hand as though I haven’t said anything. ‘More work than I want to put on you while you’re still learning.’

My foreboding sharpens into a point. ‘Elias… what is under there?’