Page 70 of What We Become

“Unless he’s engineering a non-lethal trap,” Eli adds. “I’ve seen him build a potato cannon out of a shop vac and PVC pipe. The deer doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Poor deer,” I say. “Are we sure it’s sick?”

“Everything looks sick under night vision,” Holden says. “So who the fuck knows.”

Knox grins again and resumes demolishing his pancakes, obviously finding this whole situation incredibly entertaining.

Fifteen minutes later, a chainsaw coughs to life outside.

Every person in the kitchen stops moving.

The engine chokes, catches, then roars loudly enough to make the glass hum. Frank darts to the far side of his bowl.

Holden closes his eyes. “No.”

Knox tilts his head, listening. “Chainsaw.”

“Thanks for the mountain subtitles,” Eli says sarcastically.

The engine climbs into a furious whine. Somewhere beyond the deck, wood splinters.

Then the saw cuts out.

“TAKE THAT, STEPHEN!” Milo yells.

A tree cracks.

The sound rolls through the forest, followed by a crash heavy enough to make the coffee in my cup ripple.

Holden sets his mug down. “For fuck’s sake.”

The chainsaw starts again before the first tree has finished settling.

“I’m going out there.” Holden pushes back from the island.

“He knows how to use it,” Knox says.

“I don’t care. He hasn’t slept.”

Knox looks at Milo’s cold coffee. Then at the closed mudroom door.

He gets up too.

Through the kitchen windows, I catch a flash of orange moving between the trees. Milo has apparently found not only a chainsaw, but forestry chaps, a helmet, and protective goggles. He looks like a safety demonstration being conducted by someone who should not currently be trusted with demonstrations.

“At least he’s wearing the gear,” I say.

“That’s not comforting,” Holden mutters, pulling on his jacket. “That means he plans to keep going.”

He and Knox disappear through the mudroom.

The saw bites into another tree.

Eli picks up his book and coffee. “I’m going back to the deck where I can maintain visual contact without being asked to help hide a forestry-related death.”

“Coward,” I call him.

“Correct.”