CHAPTER 3

Tayja

I look out the big window in the living room. At the treeline, I see Ryan trying to chop one down. It's not going particularly well for him. I've never watched someone fell a tree, but I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to take twenty minutes.

He's definitely not an old man. Despite his injuries, he still seems to have plenty of power behind his swings and a surprising amount of energy. His coordination, however, certainly leaves something to be desired. He said he'd been injured in Afghanistan, so how old would that make him? If I remember history right, the war in Afghanistan started after 9/11, so he's probably no older than mid-fifties. That's still old enough to be my father.

Ryan stops and drops the ax. I'm startled out of my thoughts. Is he finally going to give up? He stands still for several long seconds, just staring at the tree he's been hacking away at. He turns toward the cabin and I duck behind the curtain instinctively. When I hazard a peek, he has turned back to the tree. His left hand comes up over his head and pulls the ski mask off. Thick, wavy brown hair tumbles out. His hair is long for a man, just brushing the tops of his shoulders. I stare at the back of his head. Definitely not an old man. He picks up the ax and resumes his assault on the tree. I wonder what his face looks like. The look of his hair puts me more in mind of my original impression of his age. Late twenties, early thirties, maybe?

I touch my own hair, which is greasy and smells funky. I decide a shower is definitely in order. At last, the tree gives up and falls, I suspect out of pity. Ryan looks down at it, his chest heaving. He begins to hack at the limbs. I turn away from the window, walking to the little bathroom between the living room and bedroom and lock myself in, grateful this cabin has running water and indoor plumbing.

When I've finished my shower and dried the underthings I washed in the shower with me, I slip on some clean clothes. His jeans are much too long for me, but the improvised cuff I folded seems to be holding well and the belt keeps the pants from becoming a puddle around my ankles. The plaid shirt I'm wearing also sports rolled sleeves. I tied it just below the waist to keep it from looking overly long and loose. My curly hair is loose and gloriously clean, finally free of the wild knots it had developed after a week of no washing. It's still very damp, but unfortunately, there's not much to be done about that without a hairdryer. My hair falls past my waist when wet and takes hours to dry naturally.

Hungry again, I decide to make my own breakfast. While I poke around the kitchen, looking for food, Ryan enters and wordlessly walks to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. I hear the shower begin running momentarily.

By the time Ryan has emerged from the bathroom, ski mask back in place, a delicious stack of pancakes is sitting on the table. Flipping the last two, I turn and smile at him, proud of my small accomplishment. I've never made pancakes without a recipe before, but I think I've done pretty well. He stops short in the hall to the living room and stares at me, clearly surprised. I smile wider.

"Hungry? I made breakfast," I say, gesturing to the table.

He looks from me to the pancakes, then back to me again. He resumes staring at me and I start to wonder if something's wrong.

"Don't you like pancakes?"

He blinks and looks back at the table. "Yes," he says, and sits at the far end. He picks up one of the plates I set out earlier and begins to load pancakes onto it. I turn back to the two in the frying pan.

"Thank you," he says abruptly.

"You're welcome," I say, smiling to myself. As the last two pancakes turn golden brown, I hear him puttering about at the table, then a loud clang. I place the pancakes on the stack and look at him. The clang was his loaded fork landing on his plate. I feel my eyebrows furrow in confusion.

"I'll eat in the bedroom," he says, picking up the plate in his left hand and grasping the fork, its contents deposited back on the plate, between the thumb and forefinger of his perpetually-gloved right hand. I am about to ask why when-

"Oh!" I say as the realization dawns on me. It's the mask. It covers his mouth, and he's not comfortable removing it in front of me.

He freezes with his back to me, having turned away to walk out.

"Why don't you sit over there, on the couch?" I don't know why I'm suggesting alternatives to him leaving me alone, but instead of questioning my motives I try to make my request sound reasonable. "There's, there's, um," I grasp. "There's a coffee table there and it'll be easier to cut the pancakes than on the bed. I'll sit here," I say, quickly moving to the chair facing away from the couch.

He turns his left side toward me and his left eye studies me. Nervous and a little embarrassed by my outburst, I sit and begin fixing my own plate. Abruptly I stop and look back up at him. "I'll leave you alone, over there."

He looks from me to the couch, sighs, and limps over there. When I hear the sound of his fork scraping against his plate, I am tempted to turn and look at him. But I promised him, though I didn't explicitly say it, that I wouldn't look at him, and that's the only reason why he's still in this room.

He trusts me. Maybe just a little bit. If I can get him to trust me, maybe he'll let me stay here. I'm no more excited to live with a stranger than I was when I first woke up here, but I can't go back home. I can't go back to school. I'm not safe anywhere. I don't remember what happened in the time between riding in the helicopter and Ryan finding me in the woods, but I know why it happened.

It's better for me if everyone thinks I'm dead. Especially if they think I'm dead. The room grows colder at the thought of those men. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself, my appetite gone. Something tells me that they will never stop looking for me, never stop hunting me down until they've put a bullet in my head too.

I stare at the few remaining bites of pancake that sit forlornly on my plate. In the living room, Ryan is moving around. I hear the sound of water running as he cleans off his plate. I struggle to pull myself back into the present and banish my dark, anxiety-filled thoughts.

"Did you like the pancakes?" I ask without turning around to look at him.

"Yes. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

I feel an unexpected sense of pride at my small effort. Not only did I manage to cook something edible, but I did something to thank my unwilling host. Perhaps, if I cook and do some chores for him, he'll be more open to the idea of letting me stay. He's clearly disabled, so I'm certain he could use the help.

"Have you lived here long?" I ask, wondering if he might have moved here recently and finds himself in over his head. Maybe he'd gladly welcome any assistance I can offer.

"A few years," he says, his voice sounding tense.

I frown. So much for that plan. I look out the small window near the dinner table and smile at the view.

"I can see why you'd want to live here. It's beautiful. And so peaceful. It's like the rest of the world doesn't exist and you're the only person on the planet." This place seems perfect for me, except for the cold.

"Yeah, it is. After I..." he pauses. "After Afghanistan, there was a lot I wanted to forget."

It sounds to me like there's something else he's not talking about, but I'm in no place to judge him for withholding details about his motives.

"This is a great place for that," he finishes.

For a moment, I try to imagine what life might have been like for him in the military. Seeing people getting shot and killed. Always being on your guard, alert, prepared. It sounds like a more terrifying version of my life for the past six months, but you can't run away from it.

"I can't imagine what you've been through," I say, because it seems like the right thing to say. But really, I think I have a much better idea of what that terror is like than the average college girl would.

I decide to try taking this conversation in a lighter, less depressing direction. "It must get pretty cold here in winter. I imagine that's a deal-breaker for most people. How do you keep from freezing to death?"

"I stay inside, keep the furnace on, and eat lots of hot soup. It gets dark early, and the sun rises late. In the middle of winter, there's less than three hours of sunlight in a day."

"You're at the mercy of the stove? Do you chop all the wood for it yourself? What would happen if you ran out?"

"It's not wood-burning. Alaska has a huge pollution problem from non-renewable power generation. The cabin has solar, hydroelectric, and wind power with a back-up low emissions generator that runs on diesel. Sometimes in the winter there's not enough sunlight, the river freezes, and the wind turbine can't keep up so the generator becomes necessary. I have diesel delivered along with groceries and other necessities on a regular basis. I've got a massive tank of it out in the garage. I'd starve before I ran out."

I frown, confused. "Then why do you chop wood?" It was clear this morning that he's not very good at handling an ax. The reason why he'd choose to engage in what seems like a pointless activity eludes me.

"What?" he asks sharply, the tension back in his voice again.

"This morning," I say. "You cut down a tree in the front yard." Too late I realize that he's probably upset that I saw him without that mask on.

"I didn't see anything, just the back of your head," I say, wishing I could turn around to look at him, but also preferring not to. The sight of him wearing the mask reminds me vaguely of a nightmare I think I had.

I hear him release a breath then walk back to the couch in his uneven gait. After a few minutes of silence, I suppose he's made the executive decision that the conversation is over.

I pick up my plate and begin cleaning the mess I made in the kitchen. I glance at Ryan once and see he's reading a book. Interesting. I'd noticed the large, full bookshelf in the living room, but I hadn't pegged this man as the reading type. I suppose there's not much else to do out here though.

As I finish up the dishes, I try to figure out the best way to ask him to let me stay here. It's really awkward to ask someone you've just met if you can live in their one-bedroom house. I'd much rather curl up into a ball under the table and hide there than confront him with this, but the thought of leaving this place, especially without protection, is vastly more terrifying.

If I can somehow convince him to let me stay here, I'm gonna need some things too. Like clothes, shampoo and conditioner that won't make my hair frizz wildly, and some other, more personal items I'm certain I'm going to

love discussing with him. I roll my eyes. Curling up under the table is beginning to look like a much more attractive solution.

I remember what he said about having everything he needs delivered here. That must mean someone outside of this little bubble of safety knows that Ryan lives here. Someone who would notice how unusual it was if a single man living alone in the wilderness suddenly began buying items that all but shout THERE IS A WOMAN HERE. What if this someone mentions it to the wrong person?

Very few people knew where I was living when the second attempt on my life happened. The Marshals were being really careful after they almost lost me the first time. But somehow, they found me again. Even fewer people knew about my travel plans to Alaska, but clearly they got access to this information too. What if Ryan has already told someone that a woman is staying with him? What if they are already on their way here?