“No weapons on you, correct?” The second officer approaches, skims his eyes over me. I’m wearing a fitted t-shirt and leggings, so there’s a definite lack of hiding places. He doesn’t pat me down, but instead tells me I can lower my hands.
All guns are stowed and the officers from the windows go to retrieve a pair of SUVs from the main road. The tightness in my chest begins to ease, allowing a return to near-normal breathing, though my heart still pounds in staccato.
“We’re Deputy Sheriffs Woodson and Miller,” the de-bullhorned officer says, indicating himself and the second man with him. “We need to ask you some questions before proceeding with anything else. First, are either of you being held here against your will?”
“No,” Luke and I answer, in unison.
“Is this a runaway attempt?”
“No,” again.
“We’re sorry if we’ve startled you, but we had a report that there might be a dangerous situation here. Do you mind explaining what you two are doing, barricaded inside a hunting cabin?”
Luke and I start speaking simultaneously, and stop again, eyeing each other, twitchy and nervous. I resist the passing urge to raise my hands back into the air.
“Why don’t you tell us, Miss Marshall?” Deputy Woodson says, so I do.
Luke fills in here or there, whenever I’m at a loss for details, or adds wholly unnecessary information, like taking the blame for various events, including condemning himself for our being on the road in the first place.
“Not your fault,” I say. “At all.”
The officers exchange a glance, a hint of visible amusement flitting through their eyes, but I don’t care. This is important.
After we’ve finished recounting the basics of our story, Woodson says, “You can fill in the rest of the details when we get back to the station. We need to get you off this mountain as soon as possible, before the temperature starts dropping and everything refreezes.”
So, that’s it.
We’re going.
One minute, we’re inching toward starvation, worrying about a creepy Peeping Hermit, gradually giving up on the hope of being rescued…and the next…we’re hitting the road.
Joy and relief should rise inside me, but nostalgia does instead—not even subtly; it’s blatant and strong. Luke and I return to the cabin to stuff belongings into our backpacks; we move about with no clear rhyme or reason, like we’ve come off our tracks. The officers survey from the doorway, safe beyond the reach of both branch and trunk. They ask how long ago the tree fell and what we’ve been doing to survive; we answer while I restore order to the rumpled bed, my cheeks aflame, and Luke douses the fire in the stove.
With everything collected and more or less sorted, our gazes dart around the cabin, only settling on each other in brief flashes, searching for whatever unknown things it feels like we’re missing. Luke asks, “Could we have a minute?” and warmth swells inside me: gratitude.
Another meaning-infused look passes between the officers, but they nod before retreating to wait outside.
Luke comes forward to fold his arms around me. “I guess we get to survive after all.”
I tip my head back so I can see his face. “Good. Because it turns out this is my new favorite thing: surviving, with you.”
He brushes the backs of his fingers across my cheek, smiles down at me, gives me a kiss. “Yes, with you,” he says. “Remember that part.”
There’s more to talk about, but no time to say it, and before another minute passes, we’re wearing our backpacks and Luke has my hand and is helping me make my way down the cabin steps. Two large white utility vehicles with the word Sheriff emblazoned across their sides wait farther down on the makeshift driveway, and Deputies Woodson and Miller lead us toward the first.
“You haven’t told us why you’re limping, Miss Marshall,” the second officer, Deputy Miller, says while we walk.
“Oh,” I answer, embarrassed that the others are having to match their pace to my slower one. “The scary hermit guy we told you about? He caught me by surprise outside one day, and when I tried to run, I fell and twisted my ankle.”
“Cut her chin, too.” Luke tips up my face to show the butterfly bandage holding my split chin together.
“And the other injuries you two mentioned—the arm and head injuries—they were sustained in the accident?”
I nod. “Luke was trying to be careful. The road just kept getting worse, and since it was so narrow, and there was nowhere to turn around, we had to keep going up.”
Miller nods as we arrive at the SUV and Deputy Woodson opens the back door for us. Luke helps me climb inside, and once he’s seated, he stretches his hand across the seat to wrap it around mine.
He smiles quietly at me when I lean across him to take a last look at the place we’ve shared for the past two weeks. Could it only have been two weeks?
“Bye, cabin.” I say. “Thanks for everything.”
“If they don’t get up here soon to cover that roof,” Woodson comments, “by spring the whole place’ll be a loss.”
It makes me sad to think of this. There were moments when Luke and I felt twinges of madness, staring at those bare log walls, but that place was our shelter, our safe haven. I hate to imagine anyone else ending up in a situation like ours and not having such a refuge.
Where would we have been without it? Or, without each other?
Eighteen
The Here and Now of It
The SUV is enormous and everything about it seems official, especially with two deputy sheriffs in the front seat, and an identical vehicle following us. None of that stops my spine from prickling as we make our way back down the mountain. The memory of the last time Luke and I were riding on this skinny, serpentine road is still plenty fresh.
“Is that your truck, Mr. Owens?” Woodson asks, slowing the vehicle to a stop.
Luke’s been staring down at our joined hands, watching his thumb move back and forth over mine; he lifts his head to scan the view outside the window, stretching up his neck to see. “That’s it.”
“Might have to wait until spring to try pulling it out of there,” Woodson remarks, easing us back into motion.
“Makes sense,” Luke says. “It must be totaled anyway.”
I give his hand a squeeze and he squeezes back, his gaze staying with the ruined truck as we slowly leave it behind.
“We spotted the wreck as we came up,” Miller says. “It confirmed we were in the right place. Saw some fabric tied to trees, too. Did you two do that?”
“Yes,” I say. Luke turns to give me a little smile and I think Path O’ Fishnets. That day was the first time he held my hand on purpose, even if it was only to keep me from slipping and falling on the ice.
“We could’ve made it out here sooner, if the storms—and a few downed trees—hadn’t interfered with our searching,” Miller continues.
“It’s lucky we got here when we did, though,” Woodson adds. “More storms are headed this way. Snow this afternoon and into tomorrow, then sleet or ice in another couple of days. Our window for searching this area was small; if we hadn’t found you two today, it might have been some time before we could have resumed our search.”
Luke’s eyes find mine and the question hovering in them is the same as my own. Would we have survived the wait?
The rest of the ride is pretty quiet. While we wind our way to the base of the mountain, the officers remind us there will be forms to complete; they tell us our parents are probably already being notified. When we arrive at the station, however, Luke’s dad is standing inside the reception area, pacing.
He stops and stares when we enter; Luke says hi and rubs the bandage on his hairline, wincing.
“You all right?” his dad asks him, making an obvious effort to avoid looking at me, and at our joined hands.
I try to slip my fingers from Luke’s, but he only tightens his grasp. “Yeah,” he says. “We both are.”
I nod in agreement, unseen.
<
br /> It seems like something more should happen, and I wait for one of them to push forward through the tension and into some kind of embrace—a heartfelt handshake, even—but no one moves.
This might be the worst rescue-reunion ever.
Deputy Woodson departs, leaving behind Miller, who introduces himself to Mr. Owens. Commenting that Luke and I must be hungry, he directs us over to a small table, where there are packets of food, along with a hot water dispenser and an assortment of instant drinks. Luke and I each bypass the tea and coffee for hot chocolate; he grabs a package of pretzels and I opt for graham crackers. We’re like little kids again, coming in from the snow to warm up with cocoa and snacks.
We eat quickly at the table, making eye contact here and there, avoiding conversation.
I feel like we forgot to pack up some part of us when we gathered the rest of our things: maybe there are ghosts of us waiting back at the cabin, cold and confused, huddled together on the bed.
Once we’re finished eating, Deputy Miller addresses us again. “Miss Marshall, if you’d like to speak with your family, you can use the phone in the corner office…and Mr. Owens, is there anyone else you need to call?”
Luke half-glances at his dad, an answer already forming on his lips. “There’s no one.”
“Fine. Then, Miss Marshall, as soon as you’re finished, please join us, so we can go through the forms,” the deputy tells me.
I head off, limping toward the aforementioned office, and glancing back, see Luke following silently after his father, his gaze directed at the floor. Is it wrong to wish Mr. Owens had waited in the lobby? Because either way, it’s what I wish.
A man answers when I call my mom’s cell phone. I’m not sure I realized that was a possibility.
“Um, Jared?” I ask.
“Yes?”
“Hi…it’s Layla.”
“Layla! God, are you all right?”
“Mm-hmm. Fine, thanks. Luke and I are fine.”
“Good, good. That’s so good to hear. The police called and said you’d been found, but it’s better to hear you say it. I guess you were really hoping to speak to your mom, though…”
“Yes, please. Is she around?”
“Sorry, she’s out running errands. Forgot to take her phone. She’ll be so disappointed that she missed you. She’s been really worried, kiddo.”
Kiddo? That was a first.
“Yeah,” I say. “We were getting sort of worried there, too.”
“Right. Scary stuff.”
“Exactly. Listen, I probably should go; I’m at the sheriff’s station. But can you tell my mom I called? My phone’s broken, so she won’t be able to reach me… Um, Luke’s dad is here, though, so I guess he’ll be driving us home.”
Jared assures me he’ll give my mom the message, but it’s still disappointing to reach out for family and find a near-stranger, instead. I could try my dad, although with his new wife soaking up all the breath and breadth of his life, chances are, I’d strike out again.
I head to the other office, where Luke, his father, and Deputy Miller are making small talk about football. My recent conversation dazzles in comparison.
Luke sits up straighter in his seat and smiles at me when I enter. I smile back, but can’t help noticing how his father’s mouth tightens in direct correlation to the warmth in Luke’s face. Possibly the man still sees me as my father’s daughter, or it could be more personal than that: maybe Luke’s dad simply dislikes me for me.
Deputy Miller’s final football comment fizzles and silence reigns once more. His gaze flits over our faces and settles on his computer; his eyes scan the screen before he cracks a small smile. “That ‘scary guy’ you mentioned? Looks like he may have been the one who contacted us about you two.”
“You were right,” Luke says. He nods at me from his chair, where he sits with his hands clenched together in his lap, looking tense and vulnerable at the same time. I’m not used to sharing the same space like this: passively resisting, with no touching. I wonder if he feels the distance, too.
The deputy lifts his gaze. “Right about—?”
“When the guy surprised her outside,” Luke explains, “he kept asking her name. She thought he might’ve wanted to help, but it was too late. I’d already chased him off.”
“Speaking of which,” Miller comments, “Mr. Larsen—the man who filed the report—claimed he was verbally assaulted and physically threatened by the young man in question.”
Luke grimaces and twists a bit in his seat; his knee bounces a few times. “Yeah. I did that. I cursed at him. I think I had a hammer in my hand at the time.”
Deputy Miller’s eyebrows rise.
“But Luke was far away from him,” I say, trying to correct things. “And the hammer was only to break the ice, to get to the snow beneath. Plus, he really did think the guy was attacking me. I did, too, at first.”
Miller nods. “Well, Mr. Larsen seemed to believe you were being held against your will, Miss Marshall. I think boarding up the cabin as you did”—he looks at Luke—“probably only reinforced his concerns.”
Luke and I glance at each other, nod our understanding.
“So, for the sake of the report, I’ll confirm once more that neither one of you was being held against your will?” Miller’s gaze returns to me.
“Correct,” I say. Luke echoes.
“And, again, this was not a runaway situation?”
Another round of corrects.
“Good. Now, as for the property in question, owned by the Roth family…the fallen tree will likely be viewed as an ‘act of God,’ but any supplies you two used, or damage you inflicted on the cabin…say by dismantling shelves and nailing them across the door and windows?”—he pauses, making eye contact with both of us—“I assume you’ll be willing to reimburse them? Chances are, they won’t ask, given the cabin’s current state, but if they do?”
“I have some money saved from my landscaping job,” Luke offers.
“Me, too,” I add. “From the record store where I work.”
Luke’s eyes catch mine. He leans toward me slightly, his hands coming apart to rest on each of his knees. “You still work at Vinyl? You’re never around when I go in.”
I fight off a wince. I don’t want to tell Luke I’ve seen him there, or that whenever I did, I’d head into the stockroom simply to avoid having to say hello.
His father clears his throat. “I can write a check.”
“If you have to, I’ll pay you back,” Luke says, turning his way.
The man holds his son’s gaze for a split second longer than is comfortable, and Deputy Miller speaks up. “We’ll ask you two—Luke and Layla, that is—to compile a list of any items used or damaged before you leave today, with the understanding that the owners may approve or dispute the list.”
Luke and I agree. His dad sighs and looks away.
“Now, as for the accident portion of the report,” Miller continues, “you said the truck slid off the roadway and rolled?”
Luke looks at me for the answer.
“Yes. We rolled twice—maybe three times—and, as you saw, landed upside down. Luke doesn’t remember the accident, because he hit his head—on the window, I think—and it caused a concussion.”
Luke’s gaze darts to his dad’s face. The man’s mouth is already open. “We’ll let a doctor decide that.”
I start to protest, remembering Luke’s bleeding head, his babbling the first night, not to mention the headaches he still gets, but think better of it and keep my mouth shut. Not here, not now.
Miller finishes up with some more questions and has everyone sign the report, before Luke and I record our list of “Used and/or Damaged” items. We sit side by side to do this, hunched over a piece of paper at the desk while the deputy and Luke’s dad converse outside the office door. I do the writing while Luke leans close, his hand warm on my knee.
We use another piece of paper to write the thank-you note we planned a while back. Into th
at goes our sincerest appreciation for various and sundry items: Tylenol, bandages, bottled water, food, firewood, playing cards. We even include the stinging antiseptic, though we each laugh at the face the other one makes when Luke mentions it. Then Luke adds honey to the list and our eyes catch and hold.
“Are you two about finished?” his father asks, stepping into the doorway.
We are, so we sign our names to both papers and turn them over to the deputy. He skims through each, smiling at the note, before escorting us through the station to its exit.
“We’ll be in touch after we speak to the cabin owners,” he says, stepping outside with us. “I think the important thing to remember is that this could’ve been a lot worse. The accident was dangerous to begin with, but starvation or death from exposure are genuine threats up there. In fact, I’d recommend doctors’ visits for both of you. In the meantime, we should all be grateful things weren’t more serious, and that we were able to reach you before they became so.” Luke and I nod in unison, keenly aware of what could’ve befallen us, but the officer isn’t looking our way. He’s looking at Luke’s dad, whose face stays rigid.
Luke and I thank Deputy Miller and ask him to pass along our gratitude to Woodson and the other officers.
“And will you tell that man—Mr. Larsen, is it?—will you tell him we’re all right, and we appreciate his help?” I have to ask this, before we go. That man saved us both, regardless of how we mutually misread the situation.
The deputy smiles at me. “We’ll tell him. We’re all glad you’re safe.” He glances again at Luke’s dad, at the sternness in his face, and releases us to his care.
Nineteen
At Play
Mr. Owens doesn’t speak again until we’re in his truck, with me in the back seat of the extended cab and Luke beside him up front.
“They said we’ll probably have to wait until spring to tow your truck—if they can get it out of there at all,” he tells Luke. “Either way, another expense. Not to mention that it’s a loss and you’ll need something else to drive.”
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