Page 2 of Out on a Limb

The second ping of awareness comes when my boots meet a bristly welcome mat. A welcome mat I definitely did not put there, hazy memory or no.

I step back and stare down at the deck in dry-eyed amazement. The shadow of the welcome mat is clearly there, an incriminating rectangle in the darkness.

“What the…”

I nudge the mat with the toe of my boot. It slides half an inch along the deck, butting up against the door frame.

Okay, this is weird. I’ll hike down to town tomorrow and ask around for some answers. Someone will know what’s going on here.

Tonight, though, I’m too hungry and thirsty and dead on my feet to chase after practical jokers. Fishing my barely-used key from my pocket, I slide it into the lock.

Or I try to, anyway.

The key slides in partway, then jams. Won’t go any further. Teeth gritted, I jiggle it in the lock, like this is all some misunderstanding. Like if I can slide the key in just right, it’ll turn and everything will be fine, and I won’t be standing in the middle of this nightmare where some fucker has changed the locks on my cabin.

“Damn it. God damn it.” Wrenching the key back out of the useless lock, I shove it back in my pocket. My hands ball into fists, and I’m ready to pound down the door—but years of thinking clearly under pressure help me to step back and breathe.

Okay. Okay.

Here is what I’m sure about: this is definitely my cabin. After building it with my own two hands, I know every nail and whorl in the wood. This is my place.

Here’s what I don’t understand: what the hell is going on here.

But it is my cabin, and that means I can’t break and enter. Sliding my backpack off my shoulders, I set it gently on the deck before turning and moving softly back down the steps.

I could kick the door in, but I’d prefer not to damage my own work.

All I need is a cracked window.

Two

Jana

One month ago

“No. Absolutely not. This is nuts, Flint! I can’t break into some stranger’s cabin.”

My boss grunts where he kneels on the wooden deck, tool kit spread all around him, arms flexing as he works some magic on the lock. Not gonna ask how my ultra-reserved boss learned to pick locks, because if he actually tells me, my brain might explode.

And this whole caper is crazy enough already. It’s a sunny Saturday morning, birds are singing out in the trees, and my boss—the owner of Flint’s bar—is breaking into an abandoned cabin for me.

“These chairs,” I say helplessly, wandering over to the carved furniture set out on the deck and poking at an armrest. Sure, they’re covered in cobwebs and leaf litter, but these chairs are well made; carved with love and set out on this deck in anticipation of visitors. “These don’t look like abandoned chairs. If the owner comes back—”

“He won’t.” A tool clanks against the deck, then Flint picks up another, squinting against the bright morning sunshine. “This is that adventurer’s place. Sven or Sal or whatever. He never really settled here, then cleared out years ago. One of those fellas with restless feet.”

For my boss, that’s like an epically long speech. Flint is in his forties, with gray speckling his temples, and privately I like to imagine that he spent all his small talk decades ago. Now he mostly points and grunts, or clips out one-sentence commands.

“You need a place,” he mutters now, nodding as the lock clunks and the handle turns. The door swings open, but my boss stays kneeling and waves me past. “And you’re sure as hell not sleeping on my couch, Jana.”

No fear. If I crashed with my boss, there’d be a body by morning, and it’s even odds whether it’d be his or mine. Sighing, I pat his shoulder in thanks and squeeze through the door into the dark, empty cabin.

Dust.

That’s my first thought: this place is dustier than an old library. It tickles my nose and catches in my throat, and I cover my face with my bare arm as I step further forward. There are no lights on, obviously, and curtains have been drawn over the windows, but bright sunlight seeps through the cracks and gives some shape to the gloom. I make out a log-burner; a bookcase; some kind of sofa and a table and chairs.

Tools clink out on the deck as Flint sets to work changing the locks. For a mad, panicky moment, I picture the worst thing happening: some stranger coming home to his cabin and finding new locks on the door and a squatter inside. Pounding down the door or smashing through the window in search of vengeance.

Just the thought is enough to make my heart race and my palms sweat, but I breathe slowly into the crook of my elbow and force myself to keep walking.

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