plops back on the ice. My hands are too slimy to catch hold of it, so I lower my sleeves, reach down, and grasp it more firmly this time. It flops and squirms in my hands for a good thirty seconds, until finally, it settles down, dead.
I am amazed. It is my first catch in months.
I am ecstatic as I slide across the ice and set it down on the shore, packing it in the snow, afraid it will somehow come back to life and jump back into the lake. I take down the rod and line and hold them in one hand, then grab the fish in the other. I can feel the mason jar of jam in one pocket, and the thermos of sap in the other, crammed in with the chocolate bar, and the teddy bear on my waist. Bree will have an abundance of riches tonight.
There is just one thing left to take. I walk over to the stack of dry wood, balance the rod in my arm, and with my free hand pick up as many logs as I can hold. I drop a few, and can’t take as many as I’d like, but I’m not complaining. I can always come back for the rest of it in the morning.
Hands, arms, and pockets full, I slip and slide down the steep mountain face in the last light of day, careful not to drop any of my treasure. As I go, I can’t stop thinking about the cottage. It’s perfect, and my heart beats faster at the possibilities. This is exactly what we need. Our Dad’s house is too conspicuous, built on a main road. I’ve been worrying for months that we’re too vulnerable being there. All we’d need is one random slaverunner to pass by, and we’d be in trouble. I’ve been wanting to move us for a long time, but had no idea where. There are no other houses up here at all.
That little cottage, so high up, so far from any road – and built literally into the mountain – is so well camouflaged, it’s almost as if it were built just for us. No one would ever be able to find us there. And even if they did, they couldn’t come anywhere near us with a vehicle. They’d have to hike up on foot, and from that vantage point, I’d spot them a mile away.
The house also has a fresh water source, a running stream right in front of its door; I wouldn’t have to leave Bree alone every time I go hiking to bathe and wash our clothes. And I wouldn’t have to carry buckets of water one at a time all the way from the lake every time I prepare a meal. Not to mention that, with that huge canopy of trees, we would be concealed enough to light fires in the fireplace every night. We would be safer, warmer, in a place teeming with fish and game – and stocked with a basement full of food. My mind is made up: I’m going to move us there tomorrow.
It’s like a weight off my shoulders. I feel reborn. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t feel the hunger gnawing away, don’t feel the cold piercing my fingertips. Even the wind, as I climb down, seems to be at my back, helping me along, and I know that things have finally turned around. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I know that now, we can make it.
Now, we can survive.
Two
By the time I reach Dad’s house it is twilight, the temperature dropping, the snow beginning to harden and crunch beneath my feet. I exit the woods and see our house sitting there, perched so conspicuously on the side of the road, and am relieved to see that all looks undisturbed, exactly as I left it. I immediately check the snow for any footprints – or animal prints – in or out, and find none.
There are no lights on inside the house, but that is normal. I would be concerned if there were. We have no electricity, and lights would only mean that Bree has lit candles – and she wouldn’t without me. I stop and listen for several seconds, and all is still. No noises of struggle, no cries for help, no cries of sickness. I breathe a sigh of relief.
A part of me is always afraid I will return to find the door wide open, the window shattered, footprints leading into the house, Bree abducted. I’ve had this nightmare several times, and always wake up sweating, and walk into the other room to make sure Bree is there. She always is, safe and sound, and I reprimand myself. I know I should stop worrying, after all these years. But for some reason, I just can’t shake it: every time I have to leave Bree alone, it’s like a little knife in my heart.
Still on alert, sensing everything around me, I examine our house in the fading light of day. It was honestly never nice to begin with. A typical mountain ranch, it sits as a rectangular box with no character whatsoever, festooned with cheap, aqua vinyl siding, which looked old from day one, and which now just looks rotted. The windows are small and far and few between and made of a cheap plastic. It looks like it belongs in a trailer park. Maybe fifteen feet wide by about thirty feet deep, it should really be a one bedroom, but whoever built it, in their wisdom, carved it into two small bedrooms and an even smaller living room.
I remember visiting it as a child, before the war, when the world was still normal. Dad, when he was home, would bring us up here for weekends, to get away from the city. I didn’t want to be ungrateful, and I always put on a good face for him, but silently, I never liked it; it always felt dark and cramped, and had a musty smell to it. As a kid, I remember being unable to wait for the weekend to be over, to get far away from this place. I remember silently vowing that when I was older, I would never come back here.
Now, ironically, I am grateful for this place. This house saved my life – and Bree’s. When the war broke out and we had to flee from the city, we had no options. If it weren’t for this place, I don’t know where we would have gone. And if this place weren’t as remote and high up as it is, then we would have probably been captured by slaverunners long ago. It’s funny how you can hate things so much as a kid that you end up appreciating as an adult. Well, almost adult. At 17, I consider myself an adult, anyway. I’ve probably aged more than most of them, anyway, in the last few years.
If this house wasn’t built right on the road, so exposed – if it were just a bit smaller, more protected, deeper in the woods, I don’t think I’d worry so much. Of course, we’d still have to put up with the paper-thin walls, the leaking roof, and the windows that let in the wind. It would never be a comfortable, or a warm house. But at least it would be safe. Now, every time I look at it, and look out at the sweeping vista beyond it, I can’t help but think it’s a sitting target.
My feet crunch in the snow as I approach our vinyl door, and barking erupts from inside. Sasha, doing what I trained her to do: protect Bree. I am so grateful for her. She watches over Bree so carefully, barks at the slightest noise; it allows me just enough peace of mind to leave her when I hunt. Although at the same time, her barking also sometimes worries me that she’ll tip us off: after all, a barking dog usually means humans. And that’s exactly what a slaverunner would listen for.
I hurriedly step into the house and quickly silence her. I close the door behind me, juggling the logs in my hand, and step into the blackened room. Sasha quiets, wagging her tail and jumping up on me. A chocolate lab, six years old, Sasha is the most loyal dog I could ever imagine – and the best company. If it weren’t for her, I think Bree would have fallen into a depression long ago. I might have, too.
Sasha licks my face, whining, and seems even more excited than usual; she sniffs at my waistline, at my pockets, already sensing that I’ve brought home something special. I set down the logs so I can pet her, and as I do, I can feel her ribs. She’s way too skinny. I feel a fresh pang of guilt. Then again, Bree and I are, too. We always share with her whatever we forage, so the three of us are a team of equals. Still, I wish I could give her more.
She pokes her nose at the fish, and as she does, it flies out of my hand and onto the floor. Sasha immediately pounces on it, her claws sending it sliding across the floor. She jumps on it again, this time biting it. But she must not like the taste of raw fish, so she lets it go. Instead, she plays with it, pouncing on it again and again as it slides across the floor.
“Sasha, stop!” I say quietly, not wanting to wake Bree. I also fear that if she plays with it too much, she might tear it open and waste some of the valuable meat. Obediently, Sasha stops. I can see how excited she is, though, and I want to give her something. I reach into my pocket, twist open the tin lid to the mason jar, scoop out some of the raspberry jam with my finger, and hold it out to her.
Without missing a beat she licks my finger, and in three big licks, she has eaten the whole scoop. She licks her lips and stares back at me wide-eyed, already wanting more.
I