CHAPTER 2

Ryan

I open my eyes at the sound of the irritating

creeeeak from the refrigerator door. A figure is silhouetted by the light emanating from the appliance. I stare blindly at the person standing in my kitchen. With a start, I realize it's the girl from the woods, conscious, alert, and roaming my house in the middle of the night. I quickly sit up, grab the ski mask, and pull it over my face. She squeaks in surprise. I grimly wonder what that little shriek would sound like had she seen my face. Or what's left of it. I scowl, grateful the mask hides my expression.

"Oh," she says. "I didn't see you there." She's still wearing the clothes I put her in. Her long dark hair is a tangled mess and her pallor looks sickly, but that might just be the greenish hue the aurora is casting on her face. Remembering the look on her face when she asked if I changed her clothing still makes me feel sick inside. I tried to be as respectful as possible and I wish I could put the memory out of my mind entirely, but that's proving a little more difficult than expected. Despite being extremely ill, dirty, and a little smelly, she was the first female I've seen in years. And she's not hard on the eyes.

I try to focus on anything but the image of this girl partially undressed in my arms. I don't even know how old she is. She could be a teenager! She could be in high school! That thought makes me shudder.

I try to search for anything to say to her, but my mind is blank. This was much easier when she was unconscious. When she spoke, she didn't need to be answered. When she looked at me, she didn't see me, except for that time when she screamed after I closed the curtain. Even then, there was something vacant in her expression, like she was conscious but not really all there. I'm glad I wore the itchy mask, but in her fevered state, I don't think she was truly aware of anything she saw. What little she did say during her delirium was disturbing. Though most of her words were mumbled, garbled, and at least partially Spanish, I made out something about death and killing and running away. She seems very sure that someone wants to kill her. Why she believes that is beyond me. How she ended up unconscious outside my cabin, in the middle of the county with the lowest population density in the United States, is yet another sign that I must be cursed.

She's standing at the fridge, which has now closed, staring at me.

"Hungry?" I ask. It's obvious that she is, but it's the only thing I can think of to say. Her staring is making me uncomfortable. No one has looked at me since the day I set foot in this cabin, only a few months after the battle that left me crippled and scarred. In my current state, I attract stares like rotting food attracts flies. That's part of the reason I chose to forgo all human interaction, at least for the foreseeable future.

"Um - yes. I'm sorry I woke you up." She takes a small step forward and I realize she'd been pressed against the door of the fridge, cowering away from me.

I frown. I suppose the mask isn't doing me any favors, but am I really that terrifying to her? If she's going to wander around at all hours of the night, I may need to start wearing the mask 24/7. That thought is a rather unpleasant one. The scarred flesh the mask hides has very little feeling and isn't bothered by the itchy fabric, but the same is not true of the healthy skin on the left side of my face.

I stand and walk slowly over to the fridge. Like earlier in the bedroom, she watches me with much more scrutiny than I'd like. It makes me feel more aware of my limp and my crippled arm. As I approach her, she moves a few steps away, just out of reach.

"A sandwich ok?" I ask, looking at her sideways. She nods mutely. I pull out bread and jam, close the fridge, and retrieve a jar of peanut butter from the cabinet. I fumble with the bread bag, which is a little difficult to open one-handed. Along with most of my fingers, I lost much of the dexterity in my right hand in the explosion. I can perform simple tasks that only require the use of a stiff index finger and thumb, but not much else. The knowledge that she's watching me struggle with a task that a five-year-old could complete makes me more nervous, more tense, and even less capable of making a decent sandwich. I want her to go away. I throw the sad excuse for a PB&J together quickly, looking forward to her absence when she returns to the bedroom. I hand her the plate with the sandwich on it.

"Thank you," she says quietly. I grunt in response and head back to the couch. To my disappointment, she sits at the kitchen table instead of going back to the bedroom.

"What's your name?" she asks. I freeze, then turn toward her slowly, eyeing her. There's no way she could recognize me with this mask on, right?

"Ryan," I say reluctantly, pausing to determine if any spark of recognition flashes in her face. Nothing. "Yours?"

"I'm," she stops, looking at me for a few moments before continuing. "I'm Ana. A-Analise, uh, Gillman, actually."

She scratches at the back of her neck and looks extraordinarily uncomfortable. There's no way that's her real name. Silence fills the space between us. She returns to her sandwich and I stare out at the forest. My mind returns to last week when I was out there chopping wood. Or rather, trying to chop wood. I was right-handed before the explosion. Relearning how to do everything with my left hand has been a slow and frustrating process. Chopping wood left-handed has been a particularly hard skill to master. It takes about four times longer and is three times as difficult, but I've found it's a good way to clear my head. The physical exertion and concentration required leave little room for thought.

That day, I'd been trying to ignore memories of my ex-fiancee, which persist in tormenting clarity. Her honey cream hair. Her sapphire blue eyes. Her luscious red lips. Her complete and utter betrayal. I'd been hacking away at a tree for several minutes when I felt someone watching me. I'd thought it was impossible and that I must finally be losing my mind, given the extreme statistical unlikelihood of running into another person in these woods. But the feeling was so horribly unnerving that I couldn't stop myself from spinning around to look. What I saw stopped me in my tracks. A girl, this girl, was standing under a pine tree, staring at me.

Her thin jacket didn't look nearly warm enough for this weather, even with the warmer temperatures recently. The jeans she wore were dirty and soaked through. Damp and stringy dark brunette hair hung limply down her back and her skin was pale, her lips nearly blue. Dried blood was visible at her temple. Even though I wasn't wearing the mask and everything inside of me was screaming that I should hide my face from her, I just kept staring at the girl as she stared blankly at me. I had begun to wonder if she was even seeing my scars when her large brown eyes suddenly flickered shut, her knees buckled, and she fell to the ground.

"Why are you wearing that mask?" Her unexpected words pull me from the memory.

"What?" I ask.

"The mask. Why are you wearing it?"

She must not have seen my face that day under the tree. Or she can't remember like she can't remember how she got here. I feel a slight bit of disappointment. Perhaps part of me was hoping that she had seen my face and that she didn't find it as off-putting as everyone else seems to. As I do.

Lost in this reflection, I am silent for too long. She frowns. "Am I not supposed to ask?"

"I was injured in Afghanistan."

"Oh. I'm sorry." She sounds surprised. I can see the wheels turning in her head as she tries to puzzle something out. "Thank you for your service," she says finally.

I scoff. "A lot of good it did." I joined the US Army thinking I'd make a difference in the world. Like I could make it a better place, for the safety of America and civilians being oppressed by regimes. Like I could single-handedly fix conflicts in the Middle East if only I could shoot all the bad guys. Like global politics could be simplified to moral extremes, where the good guys are always right and the bad guys are always bad. I couldn't have been more ignorant.

And look what it got me. All of my friends died, including my best friend, and I saw countless civilians die. Some at my own hand. Some were innocent. Some were not.

"How did you come to live here?"

"How did you come to live here?" I instantly regret my reflexive words as she visibly recoils. I was feeling snappish after her first question and took it out on her. I feel like a jerk. "Sorry."

"I can't remember what happened. I know I was in a helicopter, but I can't remember what happened after that."

"You said someone was after you. Could that have something to do with it?"

She abruptly stands and walks to the window. I frown at her sudden refusal to speak. When I didn't want to answer her question, I at least spoke to her. I didn't ignore her existence.

"Who is Johnston?" I ask, remembering the name she asked about the first time we spoke.

"He's my han-," she stops. "My uncle," she finishes. I can feel my frown deepening. I get the sense that this Johnston guy is definitely not her uncle. This girl has a lot of secrets. Welcome to the club.

She stands at the window and looks out for a few minutes in silence. Frustrated, I turn my attention to the peaceful night sky.

"Is it like this every night?" she asks, her question finally sounding genuine and not like a covert interrogation.

"No. Auroras are most common in spring, but it only happens after solar storms. And you can't see it through clouds."

"I could watch it forever."

"The sun is coming up pretty soon. I'd like to get some more sleep while I still can." I'm not really that tired, but I'm irritated with her and ready for her to go back into the bedroom. I'm already looking forward to the day she leaves the cabin.

"Oh, I'm sorry. That's your bed, isn't it? You can have it back."

"No, it's fine, I just," I sigh. I want you to leave me alone. "I'd like to go back to sleep."

She looks back at the night sky before walking back to the bedroom. "Thanks for the sandwich," she says. I don't respond.

When I hear the door to the bedroom shut, I sigh quietly in relief and pull the mask off, setting it down nearby. I lie back down and close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come. Perhaps it's the knowledge that this girl - Ana, I guess - is awake, alert, and capable of invading my privacy. When she was unconscious, avoiding her was easy. Now, she could suddenly appear at any time.

What will I do if she sees me without the mask on? I have distant, vague memories of my short time at Walter Reed and the few people I saw there, but clear as the sun in a cloudless sky, the image of Saph's expression twisted in horror at the sight of my face pops into my head. Glaring at nothing in particular, I throw off the blanket I've been using and sit up. I won't be going back to sleep tonight. Looking for something to occupy my time before the sun rises, I pull my rifle and handgun out of the gun cabinet and set to cleaning them.

I hear a noise come from inside the bedroom. I pause, the barrel of the rifle in my left hand and my polishing cloth in my right, and listen. Nothing. Did I wake her up? I frown. Maybe I'm hearing things. I return to polishing the gun.

March 28

I take another swing at the tree. It's about as effective as the last five swings were, but it's an excellent way to channel frustration into action. The itchy ski mask detracts from the therapeutic experience. After this Ana girl leaves, I think I'm going to burn it and dance over the ashes.

What would Saph think of Ana staying here?

I can't stop myself from letting out a harsh, sharp laugh at the thought. Saph would be furious if she knew I had a girl staying with me. She was definitely the type to get jealous over an ex moving on. I savor the thought of her feeling betrayed, abandoned, jealous even. I feel my mouth twist into a grim smile as I imagine Saph feeling the way she made me feel. I grip the ax and prepare to strike the tree with another blow.