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I take one of the knives, a hunting knife with a leather sheath and a loop to string a belt through. I tuck it into my pocket. It’ll do to replace the one I lost on the lake.
There’s a single cupboard in the back corner. I crouch carefully, keeping my bad leg out straight, and open it. Inside is a basin, a pile of folded rags, and a water-swollen book. Thinking of tinder—my trusty thriller is about used up; I’ve already burned the scene where our hero makes manly love to the tough-but-vulnerable female cop—I pull it out.
A Guide to Field Dressing and Butchering Game.
Well. I’m not burning that. I flip through it and stop at the page about rabbits.
Rabbits are generally simple to skin, the book informs me. I snort and tuck it under my arm.
Maybe next time I kill a rabbit, I’ll get a pair of gloves out of it. Not that I know how to sew gloves. But I’ll need them soon. There are thick, rough gloves in the cupboard, but they aren’t made for warmth. Protection, I figure, for when you’re wielding all these knives and things.
When I’m done exploring I turn to go—and grin. Hanging on the back of the door is a matched set: a hat with wooly earflaps and a thick sheepskin coat. The coat is tan leather on the outside, soft wool on the inside. The tag at the collar has been clipped away, and the sleeves and collar are worn, like it’s gotten a lot of use, but there’s a tear along the bottom hem. Maybe my dad left it here meaning to fix it and never got around to it. I pull the coat on. It falls to my knees. The sleeves engulf my hands, and buttoned up it hangs loose as a tent.
It’s perfect.
I roll the sleeves up and cinch the coat around my waist with a length of rope, and hang the knife I found on the makeshift belt. I jam the hat down over my head and step outside.
I haven’t been this warm in weeks.
I’m sure I look ridiculous, but I’m long past caring about that. I tromp back to the cabin for another quick meal and a nap.
When I wake up, I use the back of the custody letter to make a list of absolutely everything I have, from thumbtacks to rope. It takes longer than I expected. It makes me feel wealthy beyond belief, but at the same time I start realizing the problems that come along with the cabin.
We’re farther from the lake here, which means until there’s good snow—and I’m not eager for that—I need a better way to transport water. And I need to get all my things over here. And above all else, I have to remember: food runs out. It’s time to get hunting.
I look at the rifle. Six bullets. I make tallies on the page, one for each. Six bullets could be the difference between life and death.
The smart thing is to use them.
The smart thing is to let go of the idea of revenge.
But it isn’t just revenge. It’s rescue. Because when Raph comes back, he’ll be in a plane. A plane that I can steal. A plane that I can fly.
Six bullets to kill the man that killed my father and escape.
Or I can hide. Wait. Let them come, let them go. Hope that Griff comes back. Wait through winter and spring. Hope that I don’t get hurt. Don’t get sick. Don’t get caught out in a storm, or trampled by a moose, or drowned in the lake. That I don’t run out of food.
No. I’m done with hope. I’ll kill Raph and live.
Or I’ll die.
I get up and walk to the mirror. I scrub at it with my sleeve, and it clears enough for me to see a face staring back at me. My face. Gaunt, now, my skin rough and darkened by the sun, making my scars stand out even more.
My hair is a snarl down to my shoulders. I tried braiding it for a while, but I gave up at some point. I have trouble now remembering exactly when. I take the knife from my belt and hesitate for less than five seconds before I grab a handful and saw through.
A minute later my hair is cut within two inches of my scalp, sticking out like a briar patch. It won’t get into my face anymore, won’t get tangled up. Without it, I don’t even look female. With my livid red scars and dirt streaking my face, I look nothing like that photo of Mom and me. I look like a wild creature.
I’m not the same girl who crouched there shaking while Raph and Daniel buried my father. I’m not the same person who hid from Jed. If a strange man showed up today, armed or not, I’d step out of the woods with my rifle aimed at his heart and I wouldn’t back down until I was sure I had a way home. Even if that meant I was the only one leaving alive.
I couldn’t have stopped Raph, the day he killed Dad. I wasn’t smart enough. I wasn’t strong enough.
But I can do it now.
Of course, I’ll need a plan. I’ll need supplies. I’ll need to be fit.
They’ll be after the crate when they come back. That means they’ll land at the head of the lake—on the opposite end from me. By the time I get up there, they could have the crate and be on their way. Especially since I went and dug it up for them.
But if I move it, they’ll have to look for it. They’ll know I’m here, but I know how to hide it. They can go off searching. And I can go after them.
