Chapter 30

The door closes and I’m left alone. Until he returns, this place will feel like a crypt. I know first aid and basic life support, but I don’t have the wilderness survival skills Callahan possesses. The dull ache of my shoulder is what’s to be expected after having an arm pulled out of its socket and put back again, but it’s nothing in comparison to the pounding in my skull. I rifle through my bag and find the first aid kit, then dry-swallow a few ibuprofen.

The room is roughly fourteen by fourteen feet, surrounded by wall-to-wall windows. Tall awning shutters protect them from the snowstorm raging outside. It appears they’ve battened down the hatches for the season.

One wall is lined with the scuffed-up lower cabinets Callahan tore through while searching for the cubie he kept mumbling about. The cabinets continue halfway down the adjacent wall in an L-shape, they remind me of the ones you see in houses built in the 1940s. On the short side, there’s an open base cabinet at the end, and it seems the door was removed at some point so it could be used for storing stacks of split logs.

A divider is set up, near the wood, providing a barrier for the cast iron wood stove that sits on the other side. It’s small, but likely creates enough heat to easily warm the modest living quarters. There’s a little windowed door on the front of the stove and a newish-looking stove pipe that rises, making a couple turns before it meets the ceiling to vent out of the roof.

On the opposite wall to the cabinets is a twin bed with a bare mattress. The bed has two drawers underneath, providing additional storage, and it’s painted white to match the rest of the lookout. A crude handmade nightstand housing books on a shelf sits next to it, probably added sometime later.

The center of the room is taken up by a small island, and on top sits a large circle-shaped instrument with a topographic map. I assume it’s used by the lookout to calculate the location of wildfires.

I pick up the lantern to explore.

Directly underneath the freestanding cabinet, is a passthrough space that reaches the other side, and a few notebooks and maps sit in the opening. Below, clipboards hang from hooks on the side. I glance over the papers clipped to them; they’re some kind of daily logs that Callahan probably understands, but to me it reads like nonsensical jargon. Shallow shelves are built into another side of the island; a pair of binoculars, an old metal tin, field guides, writing utensils, and other miscellaneous items sit in the cubbies. A first aid kit hangs from another side, and beneath it is an old picture of Smokey Bear, who tells me that only I can prevent forest fires. The corners are peeling and the tape has yellowed with age. The remaining wall of the island has a sky chart nailed to it; it's probably been there for half a century based on how badly the images have been bleached by the sun.

I head toward the bed and open one of the drawers, pleased to find linens and blankets. Dryer sheets are tucked into the bedding, it reminds me of home where we did the same thing to keep mice out of the church’s altar linens. The artificial smell of “clean cotton” permeates the musty space.

After making the bed, I get acquainted with the rest of the room. The white cabinets could use another layer of paint, but they’re in better condition than the ones at my apartment. What’s in here, anyway? With the lantern in hand, I peer inside. The first one has a few plastic rodent-proof containers stocked with cans of food and a few bags of prepackaged soups or other ready-to-eat meals.

“Whoa.” That’s a huge win.

Another door houses a green metal toolbox, and a broom and dustpan sit next to it. Nearby, an open cabinet showcases a folded-up camp stove and forest-green cans of propane. A set of drawers reveal a dented steel pot and other cookware. The shallow one at the top has silverware, a can opener, and a couple random cooking gadgets. I close the cabinets left open from Callahan as I investigate.

I’m cold, my body shivering, but my mind is in such a strange place right now. Everything feels out of order. Concussion. Thoughts flit in and out, like waves of consciousness. There’s something I should be doing, but I don’t know what it is. My eyes scan the room and land on the firewood.

Fire.

I have the logs, but I need matches or some kind of fire starter. I search the shelves but can’t find anything. The moment I open one of the drawers, the lantern flickers and goes out, dousing the room in inky blackness. I smack the lantern. Nothing.

“Peachy! Just peachy.” Now I will never find those damn matches.

Feeling around for my backpack, my fingers brush the canvas, then I navigate through the pockets to find my cell phone. I open the flip phone, but nothing happens. Then I press a button to light up the screen, but it doesn’t turn on. I feel for the power button and hold it down. Nothing. Maybe it’s cold? I slip it in my bra, hissing when the cold plastic touches my flesh, and continue digging for anything that might substitute a fire starter.

I open a few other compartments, feeling around with my hands, but it’s no use. Even using my fingers to feel the objects, I struggle to decipher what it is I’m touching. I might have touched five lighters by now, but my brain wouldn’t know the difference. I sit at the corner of the L-shaped cabinets and pull my knees to my chest. The lack of light plays tricks on my eyes, and static blinks in front of me, adding to the headache. I don’t like it. I feel more claustrophobic here than when I was trapped earlier.

After a period, my sense of time has me questioning how long ago Callahan left. It must have been half an hour by now, right? If it hasn’t been half an hour, it shouldn’t be much longer. He’ll be here any moment. The darkness makes every second feel like an hour. Counting gives me something to focus on instead of the utter dread of loneliness and abandonment.

Did something happen to him? Is he hurt?

He’s right, I fucked up. I fucked up so badly. I should have turned around sooner. Goddamn it. I return to counting in sets of sixty, attempting to measure minutes. After ten, I get fidgety. Something’s not right; he should have been back by now. What if he found an easy path back and left me here to get more help? I could be alone for hours. I pull my arms from the sleeves and curl them to my chest. The wind is no longer stealing my warmth, but it’s still bitterly cold. There has to be a way to heat up.

The absence of light is disorienting. Crawling along the cabinets, I open two doors before I lay my hands on the large smooth rectangle. I remember this from before, what is it? Focus… camp stove . Next to it are the curved propane tanks. There has to be some light outside still, right? On my hands and knees, I feel my way to the door and turn the handle, it flies open sending tiny biting flakes whorling inside. It’s a black void of nothingness, save for the freezing air that lashes every inch of my exposed flesh. I lean my weight into the door to close it.

This is bad. This is really bad.

Dropping to the floorboards, I scoot to my previous spot and feel around for the camp stove and propane tanks. Perhaps matches are inside. After several tries, I figure out how to lift the lid and run my fingers along the top, side, and every greasy crevice. No matches. I continue down the line of cabinets, searching by touch. Never in my life have I wished for a lighter so badly. I have all the tools to keep the fire going, but without that first spark, it’s pointless.

With this head injury, who the fuck knows how long it’s been. Maybe it’s only been fifteen minutes instead of thirty? Count again. I count to six hundred, another round of ten minutes. Then another ten. We’re definitely over the thirty-minute mark. I’ve counted that many at least. Right? Did I miss any numbers? I probably missed numbers.

What if he fell off a ledge? What if he needs help?

I’m so stupidly powerless! “Please, please, please…”

I drop my face into my hands and breathe slowly. There’s no way I’m sleeping until he’s back. What if he never comes back? What if morning comes and he’s still not here? If he dies trying to keep us alive, I’ll never escape the guilt. Shaking off the anxiety, I tuck loose hairs behind my ears, feeling the crusty, matted blood in the strands.

“He’s going to come back. He has to come back.”

Counting is all I know how to do. It’s useless, but it keeps my spiraling thoughts occupied. When I reach 433 out of 600, the door blows open and a light explodes into the darkness I’ve been staring into for hell knows how long .

“Oh my God!” The release of my fear is strong enough to spin my emotions into thoughtless rage. I furrow my brow and yell at him. It makes no sense, but I’m unable to grasp logic at the moment.

“You said you would be back in thirty minutes! What the fuck took you so long?!”

Callahan sets the giant water cube down with a huff, shoving it to the side with his boot. Then he closes the door behind him and faces me. The light from his headlamp is blinding, so I shield my eyes and keep my gaze on the floor. I’ve been in darkness too long and don’t want to close my eyes.

“Are you actually serious right now? Can I take off my pack before you lose your goddamn mind? Jesus Christ!” He’s panting when he unclips the straps across his chest and hips and lets the bag slide off his shoulders.

He gestures to the five gallons of water with an open palm. “Do you see that? You’re fucking welcome!” he shouts back at me.

“I didn’t know where you were!”

“The stream was covered in snow, so I had to go farther down before I found it.”

Oh.

“Good Lord, woman, you’re a piece of work,” he mutters, shaking his head in frustration. Cal turns around and points to the stove. “You didn’t start a fire?! What the hell have you been doing since I’ve been gone?”

He turns off his headlamp, and we’re plunged into blackness, so he turns it back on.

“I couldn't find the matches in the dark!”

“Oh, but you had time to make the bed and play house? Super! So glad you had your priorities straight.” He grabs a few small pieces of wood and drops them in front of the stove, then finds a box stashed inside the corner and thrusts it in my face. “ Matches!” He reaches down and snatches up a neon-green stick lighter. “Lighter!”

I looked there… I swear I looked there. I just didn’t know what I was touching.

He glares in my direction. He’s not just mad, he loathes me. I can’t blame him after all the shit I put him through today. My lips form a thin line, and I hold back tears as he yells.