Page 4 of Out on a Limb

I press the window slowly open. It moves easily, the frame not squeaking at all, while stars glitter in the night’s reflection on the glass.

It takes a minute to lift the window all the way open, moving slow as a sloth. As the crack widens, warm air spills out of the cabin and washes over me, scented with a stranger’s shampoo and the faint tang of wood smoke.

My heart slams against my ribs.

I pause again, but still: no sound from inside.

Well, then.

It’s an undignified process, squeezing my broad shoulders and long limbs through the bathroom window, but all those hours spent caving have prepared me for this. I’m used to tight squeezes and claustrophobic positions; used to wriggling my body through impossibly small spaces without panicking. Besides, why should I freak out? This is my cabin, damn it, and I’m going to reclaim it.

Climbing through the window silently, though, is a bigger ask, and as I drop down into the small bathroom, my elbow catches something on the side of the sink. A toothbrush rattles in a cup, the sound echoing off the tiles, and I cringe and pause for three breaths.

In… out.

My chest rises and falls from exertion, my body wound tight with adrenaline.

In… out.

I strain my ears, but there’s no sound. No signs of life from inside the main room of the cabin, and hey—maybe my squatter is away tonight.

In… out.

That would make things easier. I could get my bearings; look through their things; try to figure out who exactly robbed me of my home. Maybe even change the locks again before they come back, and give them a taste of their own medicine.

Moonlight washes through the now wide-open window, lighting up the scattered belongings in the sparse bathroom. There’s the cup and toothbrush on the side of the sink, with a half-used tube of toothpaste and a bottle of mouthwash to one side. The mirror has been wiped clean, apart from one infinitesimal speck of toothpaste right by the edge, and my clothes rustle as I lean close to inspect it.

As though I could learn something from a speck of toothpaste.

Get a grip, I scold myself in my head.

The shower cubicle is damp when I glance inside, with beads of moisture clinging to the tiles. That explains the coconut shampoo-scent lingering in the air. Inhaling deeply, I lean into the cubicle to inspect the labels of a stranger’s shampoo and shower gel, then flick idly at a loofa dangling from a string. It dances, sending water droplets pattering to the tray below.

A suspicion grows in my mind as I take in the labels and breathe in that sweet coconut scent: that my squatter is of the female persuasion. Does that matter? Scowling, I lean back out of the shower.

It makes no difference, I tell myself, though a strange guilt churns in my belly at the thought of snooping on a woman. As though she could break into my cabin, change the locks, and then expect privacy!

Bullshit. A thief is a thief.

Still, the sickly feeling persists as I crouch down, clothes shifting, and tease the cabinet doors open beneath the sink. Like I’m the one doing something wrong. And sure enough, a box of tampons nestles on one shelf, alongside a tub of mango body lotion, two unopened boxes of painkillers, and several different cleaning sprays.

More conflicted than ever, I push back to my feet and creep to the bathroom door where a yellow towel hangs on the hook, visibly damp. The door swings open easily, light and silent on its hinges, as I squint into the gloom beyond.

The familiar shapes of my furniture rise out of the shadows, lit by starlight spilling through the bathroom doorway. Even in this messed-up situation, my whole body aches with longing for the home I painstakingly built then left.

Why? Why couldn’t I just stay put? What have I been running from all these years? And why did I leave my precious cabin undefended like this?

Such a fool.

Now I’m blinking hard in the darkness, trying to remember whether I left my sofa there or there; trying to map out a path through the gloom where I won’t stub my toe and give myself away. Because it’s time to admit what I heard the second the bathroom door swung open: soft, steady breaths drifting from the bed. The blissed-out sighs of someone deep in sleep.

My squatter.

Need to get closer. Need to see this interloper for myself, even if it means tip-toeing through my own cabin. Christ, I feel like one of those angry bears in the Goldilocks fairy tale, demanding to know: Who’s been sleeping in my bed?

My steps are slow and painstaking, muffled by the rug. I barely blink, barely breathe, barely think as I creep forward, mouth drier than a desert cave. Is this wrong?

No. I’m the victim here, damn it. There’s no guilt in confronting a criminal—not even one who smells like coconut and makes adorable little snuffly noises in her sleep.

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