Page 1 of Rescued By the Surly Sasquatch

Chapter 1

Betsy

Betsy Ferris stood in the eye of Hurricane Clutter, surrounded by a swirling vortex of cardboard boxes and overstuffed trash bags. Her Trenton apartment, once a haven of cottage core aesthetic, now resembled the aftermath of a yard sale explosion.

"Right," she muttered, blowing a strand of chocolate brown hair out of her face. "Time to channel my inner Tetris master."

She hefted a box labeled 'Kitchen Crap,' her arms trembling like a newbie weightlifter on their first day at the gym. As she shuffled towards the door, playing a precarious game of "Don't Trip Over the Winter Boot that Doesn’t Have a Match," Betsy's mind wandered to the forest cabin awaiting her.

Trees. Lots of trees. And probably squirrels. Did Connecticut have bears? Oh god, what if there were bears?

Betsy shook her head, banishing thoughts of becoming Smokey's lunch. This was her chance to ditch spreadsheets for herb spreads, to trade customer complaints for plant companions. Sure, she might not know a dandelion from a daffodil yet, but hey, fake it 'til you make it, right?

She stumbled down three flights of stairs, her legs threatening to buckle under the weight of her questionable packing skills. Outside, her trusty steed awaited—a Chevy S-10 that had seen better days. Possibly during the Bush administration—the first one.

"All right, Rust Bucket." Betsy patted the truck's hood, wincing as a flake of paint came off on her hand. "Ready for one more adventure?"

The truck, unsurprisingly, didn't answer.

As Betsy surveyed the mountain of possessions already crammed into the truck bed, reality hit her like a slap from a wet noodle. There was no way everything would fit. Unless...

"Physics, schmysics," she declared, grabbing a fistful of bungee cords. "Watch me defy the laws of nature."

What followed was less 'packing' and more 'extreme Jenga.' Betsy pushed, pulled, and at one point considered using a shoehorn to wedge boxes into increasingly improbable spaces. Her tower of belongings grew higher and more precarious, a testament to either human ingenuity or sheer stubbornness.

"Take that, Marie Kondo," Betsy crowed, stepping back to admire her handiwork. A lone sock dangled from the side like a surrender flag.

Just as she was about to declare victory, a glint of neon PVC caught her eye. Her yoga mat! Visions of zen-like forest poses danced in her head, right alongside the mental image of herself faceplanting into the ground.

"Can't forget my future Instagram content," Betsy mused, eyeing the overstuffed truck bed. Challenge accepted.

With the determination of a contestant on 'Extreme Makeover: Truck Edition,' Betsy managed to wedge the yoga mat behind the passenger's seat. It stuck out the window like the world's least aerodynamic antenna, but hey, she made it fit. That was all that mattered.

Betsy clambered into the driver's seat, wincing as something pointy—was that her father’s machete that he brought back from the Philippines that she inherited?—jabbed her in the rear.

The key turned, and Rust Bucket roared to life with all the grace of a chainsaw gargling marbles. As Betsy pulled away fromthe curb, leaving behind the world of quarterly reports and office gossip, she caught sight of her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her green eyes were wide with a cocktail of excitement and terror, her cheeks flushed with the thrill of impending adventure (or possibly heatstroke—the truck's AC was as reliable as a weather forecast).

"Look out, Connecticut," Betsy grinned. "Here I come."

The urban jungle slowly gave way to actual jungle (or at least, what passed for jungle in New England). Skyscrapers shrank in the rearview mirror, replaced by trees that looked tall enough to have their own zip codes. The honking of impatient taxis faded, overtaken by a symphony of birdsong and rustling leaves.

Betsy rolled down the window, inhaling deeply. The scent of pine and wildflowers flooded her senses, along with a hint of... was that her forgotten gym bag? She made a mental note to deal with that potential biohazard later.

As she navigated the increasingly narrow roads, Betsy's mind wandered to the cabin awaiting her. Memories of childhood summers spent with her grandmother bubbled up like fizz in a shaken soda can. One of her favorites was sitting on the worn wooden porch where she would recount tales of mischievous forest spirits (always with a wink that made young Betsy wonder if they weren't just stories). The kitchen had been perpetually filled with the aromatic chaos of drying herbs and bubbling concoctions. The attic was a treasure trove of dusty tomes and mysterious jars that would make Harry Potter's Diagon Alley look like a discount store.

A pang of sadness hit Betsy like a surprise speed bump. Six months since Francine had passed, and the loss still felt fresh as a paper cut on the heart. But as the trees grew denser and the air grew crisper, Betsy felt a whisper of her grandmother's spirit. Or maybe it was just the machete.

The sun had begun its descent, painting the sky in hues that would make Bob Ross weep with joy, when Betsy finally turned onto the dirt road leading to the cabin. The trees leaned in close, their branches forming a canopy overhead that filtered the light into a dappled dance across the windshield.

"This looks like serial killer territory," Betsy mumbled, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.

The cabin materialized around a bend like a mirage in a desert of green. Betsy's breath caught in her throat, half from wonder and half from the questionable gas station burrito she'd inhaled three hours ago. It was exactly as she remembered—a sturdy log structure that looked like it had grown straight out of the forest floor, windows gleaming like eyes in the fading sunlight.

Betsy brought Rust Bucket to a shuddering halt, cutting the engine. The sudden silence was so profound she could almost hear her own neurons misfiring. She stepped out and took a deep breath. The air was thick with the scent of pine, earth, and something wild and ancient that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention.

A twig snapped behind her, and Betsy whirled around with all the grace of a startled flamingo. The trees at the edge of the clearing suddenly looked a lot more ominous, their shadows stretching towards her like grasping fingers. For a heart-stopping moment, she could have sworn she saw something move—something large and decidedly un-squirrel-like.

"Great," Betsy laughed nervously, her voice sounding thin in the vastness of the forest. "Day one and I'm already hallucinating. Maybe I should've packed my therapist."

---