Page 36 of Eco-Activist's Mountain Men
Half of their focus seems aimed at forestry. Articles on rainforest destruction—stuff I could actually get behind in principle. But alongside those are cherry-picked stats and glossy “documentaries” designed to paint the U.S. Forest Service and contractors like McKenzie Forestry as villains. Everything is cleverly edited, exaggerated, twisted until it’s propaganda.
Still… taken together, there’s a dangerous rhythm to it. A little truth mixed with a lot of poison. The kind of thing gullible people lap up.
After a couple of hours of scanning, one question burns in my mind: why?
Why us? Why now?
Time to zero in on Collier himself. That name—Tim Collier—it scratches at the back of my skull. Familiar. I’ve seen it somewhere in the last few years. But where?
I open a new search page, type in his name, and hit enter.
The little search icon spins… then the signal dies. My screen goes gray. Two words glare back at me: NO INTERNET SIGNAL.
I wait. Five minutes. Ten. Nothing.
It’s half past four in the morning now. My eyes ache, my body heavy. Screw it. Tomorrow’s another day. Hopefully, by then, the signal will be back again.
For now… sleep.
It’s breakfast, and everyone’s in the kitchen.
I’m hiding in the corner with a mug the size of a bucket, coffee as black and strong as I could make it, doing my best not to yawn after a night that ran way too late.
Eric, Jack, and Toby are buzzing, trading stories about the cell connection flickering back to life in the night, then dying again before morning. They’re laughing about missed calls and unread texts, swapping jokes about girlfriends, exes, and family members who are probably furious with them by now.
The only other one not joining in? Luna.
That alone is unusual. But what really gnaws at me is that she’s sitting there tight-lipped when she ought to be telling useverything she heard from Collier. This is important. She knows it’s important.
Instead, she just sips her coffee in silence.
It gets under my skin. She’s been here more than a week—sleeping in our rooms, eating our food, using our power, walking around with a crutch I made with my own hands. Not to mention, we carried her in from near death, patched her up, and treated her injuries. And how does she repay us? By keeping secrets. By protecting the people who sent her here to sabotage us in the first place.
Enough.
I set my mug down hard on the table. It makes a heavy thud that cuts through the chatter. The laughter dies. Heads turn.
“Hey, Luna,” I say, fixing her with a look. “We’ve not heard from you yet. Didn’t you get any texts or messages worth sharing with the rest of us?”
Her head jerks up. Her eyes dart guiltily to her phone, then to the guys, then back to me.
“Nothing exciting.”
“You sure?”
“What? Yes, of course I’m sure.” Her voice is quick, defensive. Her cheeks flush pink, and her hand trembles just enough that I notice. She scratches her nose—classic liar’s tell if ever I saw one. “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” I lean forward. “I mean, don’t you think we deserve to know your eco-crew is planning to fly in with cameras in fourteen days? That they expect you to hang a banner for them—make us look bad, make this whole camp look bad? That’s what I mean.”
The kitchen goes dead silent.
Luna gasps, sharp enough to cut glass. Her face floods crimson, then drains pale in a heartbeat. Her eyes narrow intoslits, her whole body tensing like a bowstring pulled tight. A vein throbs in her neck.
Her reply is quiet, controlled—but like ice.
“Have you been spying on me?”
“No,” I start. “I just happened to overhear when you?—”
