Her Nice Revenge

Tayja

I am running. Running faster than I've ever run before, my feet pounding the ground so hard that at any moment, I ought to lift off the ground and take flight. Screams are stuck in my throat, terror blinding me to the wicked branches tearing at my clothes and holding me back, keeping me trapped on the ground. I am being chased by the figure from my nightmares. The figure from my reality. I'm about to break free, about to return to the skies when a loud BANG explodes behind me. Now I am falling, falling, falling into a deep dark hole. A hand seizes my throat and suddenly everything is black, nothingness, nonexistent, null. Is this what it feels like to die? Is this how they felt?

~~~

A blinding light greets me the next time I dare to open my eyes. Brilliant whiteness overpowers my vision and I close my eyes to block out the intense glare. My brain is muddled and dim, my thoughts as viscous as crystallizing honey. My head feels like it weighs three times too much and the weight might pull me over backward. My skin is hot, but I'm shivering. I feel like death incarnate. The light from the other side of my eyelids dims significantly. I open my eyes again to see a figure standing above me with no face. I hear myself screaming as I lose consciousness again.

~~~

My eyes drift open slowly, my head still hazy. I have no memory of where I am. I'm not entirely sure who or what I am. I don't really care, either. But I feel like I should.

I'm staring at something off to my left side. A variegated brown blur, indistinct but for the darker streaks running through it. I blink a few times and with a stabbing pain as my eyes focus, the murky shape becomes the wall of a rustic log cabin. My head spins as my eyes drift upward, searching for relief from the razor-sharp clarity. The ceiling is a void of darkness. My eyes slide closed as I feel the vacuum above sucking my body up, up, into the void and I succumb to the blackness.

March 26

This time I wake slowly, awareness dawning so gradually that by the time I realize I'm staring at a lamp, I don't know if it's been twenty seconds or two hours. My head feels clear at last, but I am overwhelmingly tired. I have vague memories of waking here before and feeling sick.

But where is here ? I don't know this place. Dread begins to creep into my body, making me dizzy with fear and scaring away tiredness for a moment. I mentally pull myself together and take stock of the situation, something I know I've had to do before to survive. My eyes dart around the room, taking in as much information as they can. I seem to be in a cabin. I am lying in a warm bed nestled between the silkiest sheets I've ever touched. A window to my left reveals that darkness has enveloped the cabin. Did I see light from this window before? Snow is stuck to the glass panes, peering in at me. A snowy evergreen branch slaps the window, the sight of it sparking something in me.

The memory of running suddenly hits and sends me curling up into myself with a familiar terror. They are chasing me. I am being hunted. They won't stop until I'm dead too.

My body is shivering in fear when I remember the new plan to keep me safe. I'm moving to Alaska. A plane took me from Seattle to Fairbanks, I slept in a motel room just down the road from the airport, and I remember the helicopter we took the next morning. But I can't remember anything after the helicopter. The memory of running resurges, but I tamp it down. I dream about running in terror most nights. That was just another dream.

I look at the cabin around me. I must be in the safehouse Johnston was taking me to. The memory of Johnston, my handler, smiling kindly at me while reassuring me that he'd protect me at all costs makes me feel just a little bit calmer. I seize that thought like a drowning girl. I just need to convince myself that I'm safe, that Johnston is on the other side of the door in the corner with that light coming under it - with that shadow in the middle - it must be Johnston, coming to check on me. Everything is fine.

My carefully crafted reality shatters when the door opens and the man who walks in is not Johnston. Terror comes flooding back when the man and I make eye contact. He freezes and takes a step back. He's wearing a plaid, long-sleeved shirt and a black ski mask over his face. This is almost cartoonish. I survived so long, knowing the faces of the men who almost murdered me, only now to be killed by a man in a ski mask. Are they trying to play with me before they kill me? I clutch at the sheets in front of me, my only defense.

"So you're awake, then." His voice is gruff, raspy, and sounds strained. He coughs. Even if I try to respond, the terror constricting my throat won't allow any sound to pass through. He must notice my fear, because he quickly adds, "I'm not going to hurt you. You're safe. No one can find you here."

I feel my brow furrowing. I don't understand. Nice, safe people don't wear ski masks when they come to talk to you. But his voice doesn't sound like either of the two that haunt my dreams.

My survival technique kicks in again. I create my own version of reality and convince myself it's true. Everything is fine. This is normal. He works with Johnston. This man is here to help you. Everything is fine.

Clinging to my last threads of security, I timidly ask, "Where's Johnston?"

He pauses. "Who?"

I pull the blankets closer as my facade crumbles. Where am I? Who is this man? Where is Johnston? Why would he tell me that no one can find me here? Is that a threat?

Waking up in a strange place with gaps in my memory is disturbing enough without a masked man making vaguely threatening statements. The fact that he somehow knows I'm hiding from someone is even more suspicious.

The spiraling terror of a panic attack threatens. I can't let it take control of me now. I have to stay here, present. I have to get answers. I have to be OK. Everything is fine, everything is fine.

"How do you know someone is looking for me?" I ask, my voice little more than a squeak.

"You talked while you were delirious."

"Delirious?"

"You've been very sick. I didn't think you'd make it."

"How did I get here?"

"I found you in the woods, half-frozen to death. You had a gash on your temple. I think you may have hit your head pretty hard."

He found me in the woods? My last memory is of riding in the helicopter. How did I come to be in the woods? I want to ask, but I doubt he knows.

"Do you remember how you got there?" he asks.

I shake my head and continue to eye him. He has turned to face me, but his right side is angled away. I can only see his left eye. I can't tell if the ski mask is blocking the other eye or if something else is covering it. He holds a makeshift wooden tray that looks more like a spare plank than a real tray. On the tray is a glass of water and a bowl. I notice he is holding the tray oddly, only with his left hand. His right is tucked up against his midsection, the hand encased in a glove. The knuckles on his left hand gripping the tray are turning white. With his facial expressions hidden from me, his death grip is the first indication I've seen that he is nervous too. That strikes me as odd. Why would he be nervous around me? I pose no threat to him. He looks away from me and coughs again, the items on the tray rattling dangerously. He looks down, then back to me.

"Are you hungry? I have broth."

I nod, realizing that I am famished. My stomach growls immediately. He walks forward and I frown slightly. He has a noticeable limp. His right leg seems much weaker than his left. He sets the tray on the bed next to me and pauses, looking away quickly when he sees my expression.

"Do you need help? With the broth, I mean."

I release the sheets I've been clinging to and sit up, reaching for the bowl. I freeze when I see the sleeve of the shirt I'm wearing. I am not wearing my own clothes. This is a man's shirt.

"These aren't my clothes."

I look up at him in horror. He gives no indication that he's heard me.

"Did - did you change my clothes?" I ask breathlessly.

He glances back up at me. "Yes," he says, his rough voice sounding careful, "because the clothes you were wearing were wet and freezing. But I didn't, umm," he stops, exuding discomfort. "I was respectful." I continue to stare at him, feeling my face heat and my ears burn. His left eye looks away from me, his right obscured by the ski mask, which is sewn shut over the right eye. Is the entire right side of his body damaged? He steps back and clears his throat. "You think you can manage on your own?"

"Yes," I say.

"Good. I'll be out there. If you need anything," he adds almost as an afterthought, already limping quickly from the room as though he'd been eagerly awaiting the chance to leave it.

After finishing the meal, I consider the man who delivered it. He didn't murder me on the spot, which is either a good sign or a really really bad sign. For the sake of my sanity, I'm going to choose to believe this is a good thing. Why is he wearing that mask? It freaks me out. What happened to him that caused such damage to his right side? Suddenly a thought pops into my mind. Perhaps he'd had a debilitating stroke. That could certainly cause loss of function throughout one half of the body. It would also explain the mask if he was unable to control half of his face and particularly ashamed of it.

But I don't think I've ever heard of anyone under fifty having a stroke. I'd been assuming he was a younger guy, but I don't suppose I have any evidence to back that up. His voice sounded so rough, it could certainly belong to an older man. He didn't act or speak in a way that suggested he was young. Or old. Well, there was that line about being respectful. Perhaps he's an awkward but well-meaning old man, his body ravaged by a stroke and his face embarrassingly paralyzed. It's a thought that brings me a modicum of peace. Everything is fine.

March 27

I wake up again, still feeling weak, exhausted, and entirely uncertain what time it is or even what day it is. The tray with my empty soup bowl is gone and has been replaced with a glass of water and a sandwich. The gentle, caring nature my host seems to possess reaffirms my hope that he's just a feeble old man.

I glance at the window and see that it's dark still. Or dark again? How long has it been since I last woke? I eat the sandwich, another indication that a significant amount of time has passed. I frown and try to think. What happened during the many gaps in my memory? How long has it been since I rode in that helicopter, looking out over snowy fields and forests? The imagery reminds me of the ski trip we took last winter.

Sadness pours over me at the memory. My mother. My father. My sister. We had such a good time then, a bunch of desert dwellers gawking at snow and trying to avoid crashing into it face first. I'll never go on another ski trip with my family. All of them are gone. The memory of their deaths hits me and this time I can't force it out of my mind. I grab the pillow next to me and sob into it, trying to muffle the sound. My whole family is gone and I've been sent to hide in Alaska. Far, far away from my home. I'll never tell my mom stories about college again. Dad will never again tell me how proud he is of me for moving away to pursue my dreams, even though I was scared. My sister will never tell me about the boy she likes and how he danced every dance with her at the spring formal. My family is gone and I can never get them back. I cry silently until I feel numb and the tears don't come anymore.

~~~

When I wake up next, the sky outside is dark. Is there ever any light in this place? I feel drained, emotionally and physically. I don't want to get out of bed for the rest of eternity. My growling stomach, however, has other ideas. I'm so hungry, I feel like I'm about to vomit. Or pass out. Or do both at the same time. I quietly slip out of the bed and wander to the other side of the room, padding across the floor on thick socks that must belong to him. I realize that during our first meeting, I never caught his name. The bedroom door is open and leads to a larger room with a small kitchen on one side and a living room on the other. A couch in the living room side faces a window opposite the bedroom. Through this window, I can see the forest outside and some stars in the night sky. It's a beautiful sight.

A green flash catches my eye and I duck, thinking someone has found me. From my lower vantage point, I have a better view of the sky and the source of the green light. I gasp quietly and pad over to the window, mouth open. It's the Northern Lights. I've never seen them in person before. I hadn't thought this view could be more beautiful a moment ago, but I was sorely mistaken. I watch the dancing lights in the sky. Shades of green and purple flicker and sway slowly in the night sky, backlit by more stars than I've ever seen before. The sight is breathtaking. I don't know how long I've been standing there when my stomach rumbles again, reminding me why I ventured out of the bedroom. Reluctantly, I return to the kitchen and pull on the handle of the refrigerator. It opens with an unhappy screech and the light flicks on, blinding me for a moment. I hear a scuffling sound behind me and spin. A dark shape is sitting on the couch, jamming a ski mask on his head. I jump, letting out a little squeaking sound, and back into the counter. In the darkness, I hadn't even noticed him there.

Ryan

I open my eyes at the sound of the irritating

creeeeak from the refrigerator door. A figure is silhouetted by the light emanating from the appliance. I stare blindly at the person standing in my kitchen. With a start, I realize it's the girl from the woods, conscious, alert, and roaming my house in the middle of the night. I quickly sit up, grab the ski mask, and pull it over my face. She squeaks in surprise. I grimly wonder what that little shriek would sound like had she seen my face. Or what's left of it. I scowl, grateful the mask hides my expression.

"Oh," she says. "I didn't see you there." She's still wearing the clothes I put her in. Her long dark hair is a tangled mess and her pallor looks sickly, but that might just be the greenish hue the aurora is casting on her face. Remembering the look on her face when she asked if I changed her clothing still makes me feel sick inside. I tried to be as respectful as possible and I wish I could put the memory out of my mind entirely, but that's proving a little more difficult than expected. Despite being extremely ill, dirty, and a little smelly, she was the first female I've seen in years. And she's not hard on the eyes.

I try to focus on anything but the image of this girl partially undressed in my arms. I don't even know how old she is. She could be a teenager! She could be in high school! That thought makes me shudder.

I try to search for anything to say to her, but my mind is blank. This was much easier when she was unconscious. When she spoke, she didn't need to be answered. When she looked at me, she didn't see me, except for that time when she screamed after I closed the curtain. Even then, there was something vacant in her expression, like she was conscious but not really all there. I'm glad I wore the itchy mask, but in her fevered state, I don't think she was truly aware of anything she saw. What little she did say during her delirium was disturbing. Though most of her words were mumbled, garbled, and at least partially Spanish, I made out something about death and killing and running away. She seems very sure that someone wants to kill her. Why she believes that is beyond me. How she ended up unconscious outside my cabin, in the middle of the county with the lowest population density in the United States, is yet another sign that I must be cursed.

She's standing at the fridge, which has now closed, staring at me.

"Hungry?" I ask. It's obvious that she is, but it's the only thing I can think of to say. Her staring is making me uncomfortable. No one has looked at me since the day I set foot in this cabin, only a few months after the battle that left me crippled and scarred. In my current state, I attract stares like rotting food attracts flies. That's part of the reason I chose to forgo all human interaction, at least for the foreseeable future.

"Um - yes. I'm sorry I woke you up." She takes a small step forward and I realize she'd been pressed against the door of the fridge, cowering away from me.

I frown. I suppose the mask isn't doing me any favors, but am I really that terrifying to her? If she's going to wander around at all hours of the night, I may need to start wearing the mask 24/7. That thought is a rather unpleasant one. The scarred flesh the mask hides has very little feeling and isn't bothered by the itchy fabric, but the same is not true of the healthy skin on the left side of my face.

I stand and walk slowly over to the fridge. Like earlier in the bedroom, she watches me with much more scrutiny than I'd like. It makes me feel more aware of my limp and my crippled arm. As I approach her, she moves a few steps away, just out of reach.

"A sandwich ok?" I ask, looking at her sideways. She nods mutely. I pull out bread and jam, close the fridge, and retrieve a jar of peanut butter from the cabinet. I fumble with the bread bag, which is a little difficult to open one-handed. Along with most of my fingers, I lost much of the dexterity in my right hand in the explosion. I can perform simple tasks that only require the use of a stiff index finger and thumb, but not much else. The knowledge that she's watching me struggle with a task that a five-year-old could complete makes me more nervous, more tense, and even less capable of making a decent sandwich. I want her to go away. I throw the sad excuse for a PB&J together quickly, looking forward to her absence when she returns to the bedroom. I hand her the plate with the sandwich on it.

"Thank you," she says quietly. I grunt in response and head back to the couch. To my disappointment, she sits at the kitchen table instead of going back to the bedroom.

"What's your name?" she asks. I freeze, then turn toward her slowly, eyeing her. There's no way she could recognize me with this mask on, right?

"Ryan," I say reluctantly, pausing to determine if any spark of recognition flashes in her face. Nothing. "Yours?"

"I'm," she stops, looking at me for a few moments before continuing. "I'm Ana. A-Analise, uh, Gillman, actually."

She scratches at the back of her neck and looks extraordinarily uncomfortable. There's no way that's her real name. Silence fills the space between us. She returns to her sandwich and I stare out at the forest. My mind returns to last week when I was out there chopping wood. Or rather, trying to chop wood. I was right-handed before the explosion. Relearning how to do everything with my left hand has been a slow and frustrating process. Chopping wood left-handed has been a particularly hard skill to master. It takes about four times longer and is three times as difficult, but I've found it's a good way to clear my head. The physical exertion and concentration required leave little room for thought.

That day, I'd been trying to ignore memories of my ex-fiancee, which persist in tormenting clarity. Her honey cream hair. Her sapphire blue eyes. Her luscious red lips. Her complete and utter betrayal. I'd been hacking away at a tree for several minutes when I felt someone watching me. I'd thought it was impossible and that I must finally be losing my mind, given the extreme statistical unlikelihood of running into another person in these woods. But the feeling was so horribly unnerving that I couldn't stop myself from spinning around to look. What I saw stopped me in my tracks. A girl, this girl, was standing under a pine tree, staring at me.

Her thin jacket didn't look nearly warm enough for this weather, even with the warmer temperatures recently. The jeans she wore were dirty and soaked through. Damp and stringy dark brunette hair hung limply down her back and her skin was pale, her lips nearly blue. Dried blood was visible at her temple. Even though I wasn't wearing the mask and everything inside of me was screaming that I should hide my face from her, I just kept staring at the girl as she stared blankly at me. I had begun to wonder if she was even seeing my scars when her large brown eyes suddenly flickered shut, her knees buckled, and she fell to the ground.

"Why are you wearing that mask?" Her unexpected words pull me from the memory.

"What?" I ask.

"The mask. Why are you wearing it?"

She must not have seen my face that day under the tree. Or she can't remember like she can't remember how she got here. I feel a slight bit of disappointment. Perhaps part of me was hoping that she had seen my face and that she didn't find it as off-putting as everyone else seems to. As I do.

Lost in this reflection, I am silent for too long. She frowns. "Am I not supposed to ask?"

"I was injured in Afghanistan."

"Oh. I'm sorry." She sounds surprised. I can see the wheels turning in her head as she tries to puzzle something out. "Thank you for your service," she says finally.

I scoff. "A lot of good it did." I joined the US Army thinking I'd make a difference in the world. Like I could make it a better place, for the safety of America and civilians being oppressed by regimes. Like I could single-handedly fix conflicts in the Middle East if only I could shoot all the bad guys. Like global politics could be simplified to moral extremes, where the good guys are always right and the bad guys are always bad. I couldn't have been more ignorant.

And look what it got me. All of my friends died, including my best friend, and I saw countless civilians die. Some at my own hand. Some were innocent. Some were not.

"How did you come to live here?"

"How did you come to live here?" I instantly regret my reflexive words as she visibly recoils. I was feeling snappish after her first question and took it out on her. I feel like a jerk. "Sorry."

"I can't remember what happened. I know I was in a helicopter, but I can't remember what happened after that."

"You said someone was after you. Could that have something to do with it?"

She abruptly stands and walks to the window. I frown at her sudden refusal to speak. When I didn't want to answer her question, I at least spoke to her. I didn't ignore her existence.

"Who is Johnston?" I ask, remembering the name she asked about the first time we spoke.

"He's my han-," she stops. "My uncle," she finishes. I can feel my frown deepening. I get the sense that this Johnston guy is definitely not her uncle. This girl has a lot of secrets. Welcome to the club.

She stands at the window and looks out for a few minutes in silence. Frustrated, I turn my attention to the peaceful night sky.

"Is it like this every night?" she asks, her question finally sounding genuine and not like a covert interrogation.

"No. Auroras are most common in spring, but it only happens after solar storms. And you can't see it through clouds."

"I could watch it forever."

"The sun is coming up pretty soon. I'd like to get some more sleep while I still can." I'm not really that tired, but I'm irritated with her and ready for her to go back into the bedroom. I'm already looking forward to the day she leaves the cabin.

"Oh, I'm sorry. That's your bed, isn't it? You can have it back."

"No, it's fine, I just," I sigh. I want you to leave me alone. "I'd like to go back to sleep."

She looks back at the night sky before walking back to the bedroom. "Thanks for the sandwich," she says. I don't respond.

When I hear the door to the bedroom shut, I sigh quietly in relief and pull the mask off, setting it down nearby. I lie back down and close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come. Perhaps it's the knowledge that this girl - Ana, I guess - is awake, alert, and capable of invading my privacy. When she was unconscious, avoiding her was easy. Now, she could suddenly appear at any time.

What will I do if she sees me without the mask on? I have distant, vague memories of my short time at Walter Reed and the few people I saw there, but clear as the sun in a cloudless sky, the image of Saph's expression twisted in horror at the sight of my face pops into my head. Glaring at nothing in particular, I throw off the blanket I've been using and sit up. I won't be going back to sleep tonight. Looking for something to occupy my time before the sun rises, I pull my rifle and handgun out of the gun cabinet and set to cleaning them.

I hear a noise come from inside the bedroom. I pause, the barrel of the rifle in my left hand and my polishing cloth in my right, and listen. Nothing. Did I wake her up? I frown. Maybe I'm hearing things. I return to polishing the gun.

March 28

I take another swing at the tree. It's about as effective as the last five swings were, but it's an excellent way to channel frustration into action. The itchy ski mask detracts from the therapeutic experience. After this Ana girl leaves, I think I'm going to burn it and dance over the ashes.

What would Saph think of Ana staying here?

I can't stop myself from letting out a harsh, sharp laugh at the thought. Saph would be furious if she knew I had a girl staying with me. She was definitely the type to get jealous over an ex moving on. I savor the thought of her feeling betrayed, abandoned, jealous even. I feel my mouth twist into a grim smile as I imagine Saph feeling the way she made me feel. I grip the ax and prepare to strike the tree with another blow.

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?