Chapter 7 C7

Tayja

The next morning after breakfast, Ryan asks me to come outside with him. I frown as I remember my last experience leaving the cabin. I haven't gone outside since that day almost a week ago and I don't plan on doing so again in the foreseeable future.

"Just for a minute. I want to show you how to use the rifle."

"Why?" I ask, moving closer to the door. If this makes him more likely to let me keep the gun with me, it's definitely worth it.

"I'm going to let you hold onto it today."

"What about the bears?" I ask, remember his earlier reason for taking the gun with him.

"I'll be fine," he says, leading me to the edge of the porch. "This is a Mosin Nagant. It's Russian. They were designed over a century ago and were used by the Russian military through World War II. They are very reliable."

He shows me how to load the gun, how to use the safety, and how to fire it. He makes me repeat everything he did, then he produces two earplugs from a pocket.

"Put these in," he says. When I don't immediately take them, he says, "You'll thank me later."

After I shove the earplugs in my ears he hands me the rifle. I awkwardly shoulder the heavy firearm and try to aim it. He tries to give instructions on how to hold it, but when his vague directions aren't very effective, he takes a different approach.

"Like this," he says, stepping nearer. His arms come around me, his right holding me close to support the gun while his left hand guides mine to the correct placement. "Put your fingers like this," he says, his voice next to my ear. "Hold your right arm like this," he raises my right elbow. "And pull the rifle into your shoulder harder," he says. I press the gun tightly into my right shoulder.

"Is it going to hurt?" I ask.

"You'll be fine," he says. I give him a sideways glance, a little surprised how close his face is to mine. His arms drop from around me and he steps back quickly. "Fire when you're ready," he says.

I ease back on the trigger. For a moment, nothing happens. Then in one instant, the gun in my arms leaps back at me, an ear-shattering explosion breaks the silence of the clear morning, and a fireball erupts out of the end of the rifle.

"Holy crap," I whisper as the shot echos back from the trees. I lower the gun and stare at the tree I just shot. Bark is missing and the bullet has buried itself deep into the trunk. The entire tree shakes a little from the impact.

"Chamber the next round," Ryan says, prompting me.

I struggle with the bolt action rifle and Ryan has to help me out a little bit. The second shot is as astounding as the first. So is the third. Something about shooting at the nightmare-inducing trees is just a little bit comforting.

"Try not to shoot yourself," he says, preparing to leave. "Stay inside, and in the exceedingly rare case that someone does show up and knocks on the door, don't answer it. I'll be back much sooner today."

Why he's only just now concerned about other people showing up at the cabin is beyond me. I consider asking him why he's changed his mind on the subject, but he quickly leaves the porch and drives away on an ATV.

I head back inside, only just now noticing that he left the fishing rod behind. Without the gun or the rod, what is he doing out there? I suppose I'll have to ask him when he comes back.

While he's out, I double-check the list I'm going to give him. I decided to take him at his word and ask for everything I want. I add a few things to the bottom of the list just to be funny, including a private jet , the island of Maui, and a hundred million dollars . Satisfied with my list, I pick up the next book I've decided to read, The Phantom of the Opera .

Less than three hours after he left, Ryan returns. He is silent, but seems on edge. He paces the living room for a few minutes before sitting down to read. Less than five minutes later and he's pacing again.

"Is something bothering you?" I ask dryly.

He stops and looks at me. "What do you mean?"

"You're going to wear a groove into the floor."

He sighs and returns to the couch. He still seems antsy, though.

"Have you read this one?" I ask, lifting

Phantom .

"Yes."

"Did you like it?"

He shrugs.

"Ever seen the musical?"

"No."

"The movie?"

"No."

The conversation dies there. I look down at the book, close it, and set it aside.

"What's your favorite ice cream?" I ask.

He turns to me and I see his eyebrow lower. "What?"

"Favorite ice cream."

His left eye narrows as he thinks. "Fudge brownie," he replies.

I stand and walk over to the desk. He watches me, looking as confused as a man can with only one eye visible. I retrieve my list and add "fudge brownie ice cream" to the list, as well as my favorite.

"Mine's cookie dough," I say. "Though fudge brownie is good too."

"What's your," I pause, searching for something else to ask, "favorite book? Of all time."

His gaze flits over to Catcher in the Rye, which has been sitting on the coffee table since I finished reading it. I laugh and he looks back at me, eye narrowed.

"Well, I suppose that was obvious."

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asks, sounding defensive.

"Nearly every book I've seen in here looks brand new. That one, however," I say, pointing at the book sitting on the table, "looks like it's been read many, many times."

His eye relaxes, so I assume the rest of his face does too. I get the feeling he's not in the mood to talk about why he likes the somewhat depressing book.

"What's your favorite food?" I ask, backpedaling to a safe topic.

"I like pizza," he offers. I add "ingredients for pizza" to the list.

"Pizza is great," I say. "If you were stranded on a desert island, what five things would you take with you?"

I continue asking somewhat inane questions. The longer we talk, the calmer he seems to become. Through the conversation, I find out that he's never read the Harry Potter books, which were quickly added to the list, that he doesn't like watching TV, that he didn't go to college, but joined the army shortly after graduating high school, and that he doesn't like Doritos. When I at last run out of questions to ask him, I hand over my list for him to review.

He seems to read through it line by line, which embarrasses me a little when I remember some of the more personal items I included. I know when he reaches the joke items I put on the list because he laughs. I look up at him quickly. I'd never heard him laugh before. His laugh sounds a bit strained, but I think that might just be another symptom of the same problem that causes his voice to sound a little raspy. I wish he weren't wearing the mask so I could see him smile. The look in his clear blue eye as he laughed made me wish I could see the rest of his face. I know there must be something wrong with his face, but his perfect left eye convinces me that some of his face must have remained intact. I don't have much to go on, but if the small bit of his face that I can see is any indication, he's probably not an unattractive-looking man.

Something of what I'm thinking must show in my face, because the smile in his eye vanishes and he quickly returns to the list. He stares at it fixedly. I can tell by his stone still gaze that he's not actually reading any of it. I must have made him uncomfortable. I get up and head to the kitchen to make lunch.

~~~

I am back in my house. I walk into the living room and see the bodies of my mother, father, and sister lying on the ground surrounded in blood. I scream. A laugh sounds behind me. I turn and see no one. The laugh comes from the other side of the room now. I turn back, panic filling me. He found me. I try to run, but my legs won't move.

"Poor little girl," he says in the same harsh voice that he used to question my mother before he killed her. He smiles wickedly at me and raises his gun, the gun he used to kill my family. I scream, but no sound comes out of my mouth. He cocks the gun and laughs at me.

"You knew I'd find you. I always do."

He laughs again and pulls the trigger.

"Ana!"

I gasp and bolt up, breathing hard as tears roll down my cheeks. Hearing the name only my mother called me makes me think, just for an instant, that it was all a bad dream.

"Mamá?" I ask.

"No, Ana, it's me. Ryan."

In the darkness I see his mask at my side. I remember that my mother is gone.

"Are you OK? You were screaming."

I break down into sobs, the terror from the dream still gripping me. I feel the bed shift as Ryan sits next to me and wraps his arms around me.

"It's OK, it's OK," he whispers in my ear. "It was just a dream. I get them too."

I cry into his shoulder. He continues to hold me and strokes my hair gently.

"I know it seemed real, but it was just a dream. You're OK. You're safe. I won't let anyone hurt you."

For a long time, we are silent except for my subsiding sobs. When I can speak again, I whisper, "What do you dream about?"

"Afghanistan," he says quietly. "Sometimes I wake up and forget I left. Sometimes I think I'm still in that last battle when Jeremy- when I-"

He doesn't finish.

"When I was little, my parents -" a sob at the memory of my parents stops me. "My parents told me that if I had a nightmare, I should wait for ten minutes. If I was still scared, then I could come wake them up. That always worked, until now. The nightmare never ends. And my parents are gone."

He hugs me a little tighter. "I'm here," he says after a few moments.

"Thank you," I say into his shirt.

After a little while, my eyelids begin to feel heavy and my body slumps again his.

"Are you ready to go back to sleep?" he asks.

"I think so."

He stands and is about to leave the room when I call out to him.

"Ryan?"

He stops. "Yes?"

"Will you stay, just until I fall asleep?"

"OK." He pulls in a chair from the living room and sits near the door.

I lay down and close my eyes. The image of the man holding the gun pops into my head and my eyes fly open.

"What do you do?" I ask.

"What?"

"When you have nightmares. What do you do to go back to sleep?"

"I don't usually. I clean my guns or read or do chores. Sometimes taking a shower helps."

I try to fall asleep again, but images of my family bleeding into the living room floor keep materializing in my vision.

"Have you ever watched someone die?" I ask.

Ryan is quiet for a long moment. "Yes."

I remember the terror I felt when I watched my family die and knew that I was next. I remember the terror I felt the next two times I narrowly avoided death.

"Have you ever thought you were going to die? Like you knew, you knew , that someone was going to kill you?"

"Yes."

"That was in Afghanistan, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was."

"How did you keep going?"

"I knew my squad would protect me. We always had each other's backs. Until that last battle, I guess."

"What happened that day?"

"There were too many of them. We weren't prepared for so many. They just kept coming out of nowhere. Then Jeremy stepped on that bomb. I don't remember anything after that. I never saw any of them alive again."

I suppose Ryan understands what I went through better than anyone else I've ever known. Certainly better than my friends at school.

"I'm glad you didn't die," I say, simply.

"I'm glad you didn't die either," he says. "I won't let anyone hurt you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," I say, feeling my mind finally start drifting off into sleep as my eyes slide closed.