Page 13 of Where Broken Wings Fly

I glower up at him as I prop the axe against the lawn. “Alright, kid. No need to fucking yell.”

“I didn’t know if you could hear me over your brooding lumberjack routine.”

“Hilarious.”

“I suppose splitting logs is cheaper than therapy. One session with you and the shrink would run away screaming.”

“Wanna come here and say that to my face?” I snarl at him.

“I’ll pass on the beating for today. Thanks, though. You’re always so thoughtful.”

Shooting me an innocent smirk, he traipses back inside, his caramel-coloured hair shining in the sunshine. Smug asshole. He won’t be grinning when I break his short legs.

We need to drive down the mountain and into the nearest town this afternoon to collect more propane for the tanks before Lola chews me out again. It’s a long, treacherous drive that I’ve been putting off all week.

I don’t like venturing back into civilisation often. After spending all thirty years of my life in Briar Valley, the outside world beyond our property lines holds little appeal.

Grabbing the final log on my pile, I brutally rip it apart by hand. There’s nobody around to stare at me. Everyone is preparing for this evening’s party in the town square.

Tonight is a special night. Lola insists we celebrate the town’s anniversary every year. It’s been four decades since Briar Valley was first established in the rugged Welsh countryside.

In that time, the town has grown exponentially from a single cabin to almost forty eccentric residents spread throughout the thick forest of pine and birch trees, spanning across five miles of private land.

Lola has been here from the beginning and built the very first, hand-carved cabin with her late husband. Then another desperate family sought refuge in the woodland, and another, until an entire town was built from nothing.

This is a place for lost things.

A family of choice, rather than blood.

With all my wood pile chopped and ready to be taken to Lola’s cabin for the bonfire, I load it up in the bed of my peeling, russet-red truck and begin the winding drive back down into the depths of the valley.

A cabin is a poor choice of word for Lola’s ten-thousand-square-foot monstrosity built in a clearing off to the side of the town square, surrounded by carefully pruned orchards and allotments.

Three stories of gleaming, hewed timber and tinted, clear-cut glass, the cabin spans the entire length of the clearing with enough space for the whole town to socialise in, though everyone has their own cabin and patch of land.

Parking the truck, I begin to unload the bed, piling up wood at the edge of the square to add to the bonfire for tonight’s celebrations.

“Killian?” a voice shouts.

“Yeah, it’s me, Grams.”

The carved oak door slams open, and Lola emerges from her cabin while smoothing her paisley dress.

“Ryder is bringing down the fuel and kindling.”

“I’m heading into town to collect the propane delivery with Zach. You need anything else while we’re there?”

Thumping down the wide, wooden steps, she meets me in the clearing. Lola is barely five feet tall, wizened and twinkle-eyed with a cloud of floss-like, silvery hair.

Despite her tiny size and wholesome appearance, she’s tough as nails. Her skin is calloused from a life of hard labour, and her limbs are tough and wiry without an ounce of fat.

She isn’t my real grandma, but everyone around here calls her Grams. She’s the closest thing to a family that I have left, along with Zach and Micah. Everyone else is gone.

“No, we’re all set,” she declines.

“Alright. We’re gonna head out now.”

“Hurry back. You don’t want to be late. It’s a long drive.”

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