Page 78 of Knot Guilty

The first email is from Bonnie asking if I’m ok. Chelsea is next. Her message hits me like a throat punch. She went to Brock’s funeral with several other operatives.

Dammit! I had already known that I’d missed it. Brock was laid to rest with full honors while I was laid up in that hospital in India. I lean back in the wooden chair and scrub my hands over my face. I’ll make time to visit his grave soon. I’m sure Aaron and Knot will want to go too.

The last message is from Cade, one of my longtime teammates at Knot Corp. “What’s going on, Sadie? Aaron just marched up to Knot and demanded that he be assigned to another team. In front of the whole damn company.”

I reread Cade’s message, and what little is left of my heart shatters into a million pieces. It seems that everything I feared has come to pass. Aaron has written me off.

I slam the laptop’s lid shut and shove my chair away from the desk. Well, Maxen, you got what you wanted. I hope you’re happy in hell.

By now, everyone has learned all the spicy details about what happened and knows that my best friend no longer wants to work with me. It’s likely that none of them are going to want to work with me again, and I can’t blame them. Who wants to serve under a leader whose blind spots could get you killed?

At this point, I don’t even know what I’d have in Norfolk to go back to.

Rising from the seat, I go to my closet and pull down a bag, haphazardly throwing clothes and gear inside. I grab some books and my toiletry bag and leave my room.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I fill a box with non-perishable foods, fruit, and a bottle of whiskey from my dad’s bar. I load all the supplies and an extra gas can onto one of the ATVs and go back inside to leave a note for my dad.

Gone to the cabin for a couple of days. Please don’t worry.

Sadie

The last thing I take before walking out is my dad’s old Colt 45. The gun gets tucked into the back of my jeans, and I set off for the mountain pass, taking the trip slower than usual to keep from bouncing my sore body around too much.

The air has a distinct chill to it as the sun sets, a clear indication that winter is well and truly on its way. I get all the supplies inside and haul in enough firewood to keep the place warm through the night.

Once everything is squared away, I start a fire, pull the copper bathtub next to the wood-burning stove, and use the well pump next to the counter to fill a large pot with water. I set the pot to warm on the stove while a can of soup warms next to it.

It takes half an hour and several buckets to get the tub ready for a bath, but by then, I’ve finished my soup, tied up my hair, and stripped out of my clothes. Sliding a small table over to the side of the tub, I set out the whiskey, a towel, and everything else I’ll need.

The steam from the tub fogs over the two small cabin windows, not that it matters. I’m not worried about privacy. There’s no one around for miles. With only lantern light to see by, I step into the near-scalding water and sink down to my chin.

The heat of the water seeps into my bones, as comforting as it is relaxing, and the high temperature ensures that the bath should stay warm for a long time. After several minutes of soaking and many failed attempts to blank my mind, I grab the bottle of Jack and take a swig.

The amber liquid burns going down, blending just the right amount of misery to go with the pleasure. With that first shot down, I reach for the soap and scrub the bar over my battered body, careful not to use too much, or else I’ll have to heat more water to rinse off.

After I'm done, I take another sip of the whiskey and lean my head back against the tub. The combination of the Jack, my exhaustion, and the feel of the water loosens my head enough that I start talking to the ceiling. I’d talk to Gunny if he were here, but he’s not, so the wood slats will just have to do.

I stare at the small cross-section of beams above me and mumble, “Ah, fuck it. You’ll probably judge me too.”

Grabbing the bottle, I take one last shot of whiskey and decide I’ve had enough. Enough of the booze, enough of the water, and enough of the lie I’d been living in Norfolk. I don’t know what I’ll do here, but I guess it’s time to start over again.

My legs are a little wobbly when I push out of the tub. I use both hands to steady myself, so I don’t fall on my ass. Keeping close to the stove, I dry off quickly and dress before hooking up the drain hose to the tub.

The drain leads to an underground pipe connecting to a cistern buried about fifty feet away. The cistern has holes in the bottom, so the water absorbs slowly, filtered by the dirt before returning to the water table.

Once empty, the hose and tub are put away, and I hang the lantern over the rocking chair. From the stack of books I brought, I pick one without looking and wrap myself in a blanket. Then I settle in the rocking chair and pretend to read before falling asleep to the sound of the crackling fire.

The stove is still warm when I wake up in the morning, though the fire has gone out. I don my coat, go outside to handle some business, and load up on firewood on my way back in.

In no time, the fire is roaring again, and I crack the seal on a can of ham for breakfast. My thoughts are no less tortured today than they were last night.

Damned whiskey. You weren’t any help.

After the simple breakfast, I clean up the mess and grab the fishing pole from the hooks over the door. There’s a creek about half a mile from here, where I used to sit and listen to the water. With any luck, the babbling brook will bring me some peace as well as some dinner.

I’m not holding out much hope for either. I was always shit as a fisherman.

Sadie

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