Chapter 9 C9

Tayja

I wake to hear a helicopter hovering above the cabin. Terrified that I've been found, I jump off the bed and hide in the first spot I can think of: under the bed. In retrospect, this definitely wasn't a very original hiding spot nor was it a particularly good spot to wedge myself, as it had very limited egress options. Never underestimate the idiocy of blind panic.

After a few terrifying moments, the whirring of the helicopter grows louder, then the sound becomes more distant as it flies away. I remain huddled under the bed until I hear a knock on the door.

"Ana?"

I'm still unused to hearing that name. Ever since my little sister started talking, everyone's been calling me Tayja. That's what she said when she tried to pronounce Anastasia. It sort of stuck. I'd been spelling it Tasia at first, but soon discovered I could use the more exotic letters y and j to achieve the same pronunciation with a spelling that looked way cooler on paper. Or so I thought when I was seven.

I scoot out from under the bed and race over to answer the door. If Ryan notices my exceptionally disheveled appearance, I can't see his reaction to it.

"What was that?" I ask in a voice barely above a whisper. Ryan's calm demeanor is reassuring, but I'm still suspicious of the activity that just occurred outside.

"Delivery is here," he says simply. "I'm going to bring in your clothes first."

"Oh," I say, feeling relieved. "Thanks."

I emerge from the bedroom ten minutes later wearing all new clothes. After weeks of wearing either the one outfit I brought with me or oversized men's clothing, wearing fresh, well-fitting clothes is wonderful. I smile at Ryan, who has retrieved the pair of boots he insisted upon and holding them out for me. Two boxes of clothing for me lie partially opened in the middle of the living room.

"Thank you for," I stop, trying to find the right words. My clothes? The books? These shoes? But he's done so much more than that.

Rescuing me? Letting me stay here?

"Everything," I finish, hoping he understands how much that encompasses.

He nods in response and sets the boots in front of me.

"Put them on," he says.

I do, but hesitantly. Aside from my brief and unpleasant trip to the porch, I haven't left the safety of the cabin since I was first brought here unconscious.

"Come with me," he says, heading out the door.

I hang back, standing nervously by the couch. I have no desire to relive the flashbacks the last trip outside gave me. In addition to that, open spaces make me feel nervous. This began after the first attempt on my life. I feel so exposed and defenseless without the shelter of four walls and a ceiling.

"I don't know..." I trail off, stalling.

Ryan turns around to face me.

"You'll be fine. I need you to help me unload the crates. They're very close. 20 yards."

"Ok," I agree reluctantly. When I step out onto the porch, I pause, expecting to feel the panic of running terrorized through a forest. Ryan turns to look at me when he hears my footsteps stop. At first I think he's going to question me, but instead he is silent, waiting for me to follow him.

I look around at the small clearing the cabin is located in. Ryan's collection of hacked-off tree stumps trail off towards the one break in the dense woods surrounding us, a narrow dirt road that disappears into the forest. I take two more steps toward the stairs and hesitate again. I notice a small garage-like structure freestanding from the cabin with an ATV parked inside. A woodpile is stacked along the cabin wall just off the porch. The large wooden crate rests where the helicopter must have deposited it in the middle of the clearing. Ryan has already pried it open with a crowbar. My gaze shifts back to the thick, dense forest beyond Ryan, who's still standing there, waiting for me. I take another hesitant step down one stair, then another. At the last step, I grip the railing of the porch and feel a dizzying wave a panic sweep over me at the thought of taking another step closer to those trees.

I can't do it. I won't. I turn and race back inside the cabin, slamming the door behind me. My breathing is coming so fast, I can't seem to stop gasping for air. I feel like I'm dying, like I'm going to pass out because I'm suffocating. The door opens and Ryan's rough voice penetrates the fog around my head.

"You're OK, Ana. Look at me."

I turn to look at the one blue eye behind the mask. His hands grip my shoulders gently.

"You're OK. You are safe. Breathe in," he says, his shoulders rising and chest expanding as he takes a slow breath, "and out." He continues to breathe slowly, his blue eye locked on mine. I mimic his steady breaths as best I can until my breathing finally returns to normal.

"How long have you been having panic attacks?" he asks.

I look at the floor.

"I started getting them after Afghanistan," Ryan says, his voice quiet and gentle. "Though it's been a while since I've had one. Sucks, doesn't it?"

I look back up at him and nod silently. He drops his hands from my shoulders. He turns to look back out the open door, and I feel myself backing away. He turns back to look at me.

"I'll bring the stuff to the porch and you can take it inside. Is that OK with you?" he asks.

I nod silently again, feeling my face flame. I'm mortified.

"I'm going to go back outside, now, OK? If you need anything, just shout and I'll hear you. OK?"

"OK," I whisper.

He doesn't leave immediately; he stands still for a few moments, watching me. I feel the fire in my cheeks start to spread to my ears.

Seemingly satisfied with my current condition, he heads back outside. In a few minutes, a small pile of boxes and packages has gathered on the porch near the door. I inch towards it and manage to gather all of the things without actually setting foot outside of the cabin. I deposit the items in the living room and return to the doorway to continue this bucket-brigade of deliveries.

After several trips back and forth, I begin to realize that the shorter distance I have to travel is definitely not the only reason I end up waiting on Ryan to bring me something new to carry. It would seem that in addition to whatever ailment causes him to conceal the skin of his right arm and hand, he also sustained some sort of debilitating damage to the limb. He rarely carries any weight with it. When he does, it's never very much. This makes carrying boxes a slow and difficult process. Now I understand why Ryan recruited me for this task despite never having asked for help with anything else in the past.

I start to feel bad that I can't seem to stomach leaving the porch. He could clearly use my help. He also seems to have difficulty setting boxes down without dropping them, so I gather up my courage as he approaches with the next box and meet him at the edge of the steps. He hands me the box instead of leaving it on the porch. This system seems to work much better.

Back in the cabin after Ryan has finished unloading the crate, I am happily opening the boxes he identified as mine while he sorts through the food and other items he normally receives in these supply drops. I come across Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone and cheerfully snatch it up.

"This is what you're reading next," I say, waving it at him before setting it on the armrest of his side of the couch.

"Do I have a say in the matter?" he asks, sounding like he's teasing me.

"No," I say, giving him a teasing smile before returning to my boxes on the kitchen table. I'm admiring the shiny new headphones I just opened when I notice Ryan standing across the table from me. I look up to see him holding a rifle. It's not the one I usually see him carrying around. It's a little smaller and looks lighter. He moves the empty boxes and packaging aside and sets it on the table in front of me. I look from it to him and tilt my head.

"Is this for me?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Oh," I say, quickly losing interest in the headphones.

Ryan sits at the table. "The first rule of gun safety is always treat a gun like it's loaded, even if you know it isn't. Far too many people get shot because someone's being stupid and didn't know the gun was loaded. The second is that you never point it at someone you don't intend to shoot. Third, you keep your finger off of the trigger unless you're about to shoot. Fourth, even if the safety is on, treat the gun as though it's not."

For the next several minutes, he calmly explains basic gun safety and how to shoot this rifle, which is a Winchester Model 70. He says that as if I'm supposed to know what kind of gun that is, which I don't. He also demonstrates and explains how to clean it, how to disassemble the gun, and how to put it back together. It's the most I've ever heard him speak in one sitting. When he is finished, he pushes the rifle across the table and looks at me.

"Take it apart," he says.

The gun only breaks down into a few parts, so it's not that difficult.

"Put it back together."

With a little help, I reassemble the gun.

"Again."

This time I manage to do it all on my own. I look up at him and smile. I can't tell if he is smiling in return. The focused look in his eye suggests he's not. He moves the rifle to the side and pulls out a handgun I didn't even notice he was carrying. It doesn't look new like the rifle he presented me with.

"This is my Beretta M9."

It looks comfortable in his hand, like he's very well acquainted with it. Maybe he is. It also looks a lot more complicated than the rifle.

"Are you going to make me take that one apart?" I ask, already dreading it.

"No. This is mine. Once you've learned how to fire your pistol, you can try it if you like, but you don't need to learn this one."

"My pistol?" I ask.

Ryan pulls another gun out of nowhere.

"This is a generation five Glock 17."

I pick it up and turn it over, looking at it. It looks a lot like the service weapons used in TV shows. It also looks eerily like the gun Johnston always carried.

"Don't point it at your face," Ryan says, his hand moving the barrel away from me.

"Oops," I say, feeling embarrassed. I look down at his perpetually-gloved right hand resting on the weapon in my grip, almost touching my hand. He pulls his away from me quickly.

"That one you do have to take apart."

I look up to see yet another gun in Ryan's hand, this one a pistol with a blue grip.

"Where are all of these coming from?" I ask incredulously.

"Your rifle, the Glock, and this 1911 Colt are new. I've had my rifle and the Beretta since I moved here."

"Did you get the Beretta in -" I stop, thinking maybe it's not a great idea to bring up Afghanistan all the time. I wouldn't appreciate it if he asked about my family on the regular.

"No," he says, obviously understanding my question. "Although you are correct that I was issued one in the army. The US military does not allow servicemen or women to keep their service weapons after being discharged. I got one after I came back because I'd become so comfortable with it. I actually feel weird without it.

"Now," he says, setting aside the Colt. "The Glock." As with the rifle, he explains the operation and cleaning of the gun, completely breaks it down, and puts it back together. "Your turn," he says when he's finished.

I try my best. This one is much more complicated than the rifle. He only helps when I ask for it and doesn't speak except to answer questions. Putting it back together takes much longer and requires much more of Ryan's sparing assistance. When the weapon is at last back in one piece, I look back at him. My expression must be telling, because his eye softens, the closest indication of a smile I've seen from him all day.

"Yes, you have to do it again."

I sigh and begin the process all over again.

When he tells me to disassemble the gun for the third time, I begin to lose my patience.

"How long are you going to make me do this?"

"Ideally, until you can do this," he says, picking up the Beretta and stripping it and rebuilding it faster than I thought possible, especially for someone with a disabled hand.

"How did you do that?" I ask, my voice incredulous for the second time today.

"Lots of practice. Lots and lots of practice. Speaking of practice," he says, and indicates the weapon in front of me.

"Why are you doing all of this?" I ask.

"You need to be familiar with a gun if you're going to use it," he says. "If your gun jams in a high-stress situation, you should know how to fix it quickly and efficiently." The look in his clear blue eye is guarded.

"No, I mean why did you buy three guns? You already have two. Why do you have two pistols now?"

"I've always wanted a Colt. They're classic," he says, but I'm not fooled. This must also show in my face.

"Why did you buy ME two guns?"

"You can go hunting with the Winchester," he says.

I hold up the Glock, clearly not a hunting weapon, and pin him with a stare.

He folds his arms across his chest and leans back in the chair. I wait. At last he sighs and begins to speak, though hesitantly.

"I found the helicopter."

I feel my jaw drop and my blood run cold. My stomach begins to throb and my hands start to shake. I can tell by the tone of his voice that he's got something more to tell me. And it's not good.