Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
ELIAS
I wake up to the sound of dripping. It’s not the cozy, relaxing kind you get off cabin roofs in movies. This is the relentless, arrhythmic plink of thawing snow hitting metal somewhere over my head, echoing down into the field station with all the charm of a leaky faucet.
For a moment, I’m disoriented—staring at the rough wooden beams overhead, at the faint strip of pale light seeping around the curtain. Then it hits me, all at once, like a rush of cold air straight to the lungs.
I’m back.
Not in a university office with buzzing fluorescent lights. Not in a noisy café trying to analyze data while someone plays acoustic covers in the corner. I’m back in Olympic.
The thought settles into my chest like relief finally finding somewhere to land.
I roll onto my side and immediately regret it when my spine pops like bubble wrap.
“Excellent,” I mutter into my pillow. “My body has unionized.”
The cot under me is about two inches too short and definitely older than I am, the mattress a thin layer between me and the plywood platform. I knew it would hurt. I remembered that. But apparently my back has forgotten how to be a good sport about it.
I push up to sit, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The early-spring chill has seeped in during the night, numbing my nose and fingertips. My breath fogs faintly in the dim air as I swing my legs over the side and plant my feet on the worn rug.
It’s quiet. Not the heavy, artificial quiet of insulated walls, though. This is layered quiet. Alive almost.
If I listen, I can hear it: the faint creak of trees shifting, the distant hush of water moving under sheets of ice, the first soft calls of waking birds. A jay complains somewhere outside. A squirrel skitters over the roof.
The skittering doesn’t stop. Instead, it relocates—from roof to porch railing with a soft scrabble of claws.
When I glance toward the window, the squirrel is already there, pressed close to the glass like a tiny, judgmental landlord.
He tilts his head, whiskers twitching, black eyes bright with interest rather than fear.
He’s not frozen, nor does he dart away. Instead, I’m convinced the little critter is just watching me.
“Well,” I murmur, pushing myself upright, “good morning to you too.”
I slide the window open an inch, expecting him to bolt. He doesn’t. He hops closer instead, little paws gripping the railing as he leans in like he’s considering a conversation. The casual acceptance is oddly reassuring—this unspoken you belong here enough for now.
After months in cities where even pigeons look annoyed by human existence, the uncomplicated curiosity feels like a small benediction. I snort softly and close the window again. “Sorry, buddy. No snacks yet. You’ll have to survive on my greeting.”
I smile and inhale deeply. The whole station smells like damp wood, stale coffee, and the faint ghost of last summer’s campfire smoke clinging to my clothes.
I’ve missed this so much it hurts a little.
I reach for my phone on the crate I use as a bedside table. The screen glares at me: 4:58 a.m. The network symbol winks weakly in the corner, like it’s not entirely convinced it exists.
My thumb hovers over Milo’s name.
My brother told me to text when I got here yesterday.
I meant to. Truly. But I was too busy unlocking doors, checking water lines, fighting with the generator, making sure no raccoon had turned the station into a winter Airbnb.
By the time I realized I hadn’t texted, I passed out face-first on top of my sleeping bag.
I grimace and hit Call.
It rings. Once, twice, three times. Then his voicemail kicks in with his usual greeting—casual, half laughing, like he recorded it while walking.
“Hey, you’ve reached Milo—”
Guilt pricks. Of course he’s not awake. It’s nearly 8:00 a.m. on the East Coast, but he was out late photographing city lights the night before. Time zones are my eternal enemy.
The beep sounds.
“Hey,” I say, my voice still rough with sleep.
“Sorry, I, uh… forgot you were likely out half the night on a shoot, and also forgot to tell you I didn’t die on the drive.
I made it to the station yesterday. Everything’s intact.
No burst pipes, no raccoon squatters, and my coffee survived, which you know is the real crisis point. ”
I glance at the small window. The sky outside is just beginning to pale, a soft gray-blue that makes the silhouettes of trees look almost black.
“It’s good to be back,” I admit quietly. “I didn’t realize how much I missed it until I stepped out of the car and… yeah. Anyway. I’ll send you some photos when the light’s better. Call me when you’re awake. Love you, kid.”
I hang up and stare at the phone for a second, feeling that now-familiar mix of warmth and awkwardness. It’s still new, this thing where we both say love you on purpose instead of by accident.
A jay squawks again outside, louder this time. The forest is waking up. And if I sit here another minute, I’ll start narrating it in my head and never stop.
I haul myself off the cot and shuffle to the tiny kitchenette. My socks slide a little on the scuffed wooden floor. Someone—probably me, last season—taped a note above the counter:
REMEMBER TO LABEL SAMPLES. “Dirt in Jar” IS NOT HELPFUL, PAST ELIAS.
“Wow, rude,” I tell my own handwriting and start rummaging for the coffee tin.
A few minutes later, the kettle rattles quietly on the little propane stove. I lean my hip against the counter and watch my breath fog while the water heats, listening to the world outside grow noisier. Drips become trickles. A woodpecker starts testing a trunk somewhere beyond the station.
When the kettle whistles, it’s almost a relief. The sound’s concrete, and familiar.
I pour the water and wait for the grounds to bloom, steam curling upward in lazy spirals that smell like burnt hope.
“Camping is getting harder on my spine,” I tell the mug. “But at least you’re still loyal.”
By the time the coffee is strong enough to reanimate the dead, my skin is prickling—that subtle awareness that I’m not alone, even though I absolutely am.
It’s the same feeling I got last season more than once: a sense of being observed, not by predators, not by anything hostile… just something there.
I chalked it up to nerves then. To being out in the woods alone for extended periods of time. To too much caffeine.
I chalk it up to the same now.
Outside, the mist is still clinging low when I open the door and step onto the small wooden porch. The cold air slaps my cheeks awake in one go. I suck in a lungful of it—sharp, clean, threaded with the scent of wet earth and thawed needles.
Fog lies over the ground in soft, uneven ribbons, weaving between ferns and the low shrubs edging the clearing. The trees rise around the field station like quiet giants, their trunks dark with meltwater, moss glowing almost neon where it creeps up the bark.
I close my eyes and let the soundscape soak in—dripping, creaking, a distant raven delivering what sounds suspiciously like judgment.
“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur. “I hear you. The ungrateful city ape has returned.”
Gravel crunches. Voices carry faintly through the still air.
I open my eyes and see three figures moving along the trail toward me: bright ranger jackets against all the greens and browns. Gladys leads the way with that determined stride that suggests she can and will walk through obstacles rather than around them.
I straighten automatically, mug in hand.
“Morning, Elias,” she calls when she’s close enough. Her breath huffs visibly from her mouth in little clouds. “I see the shack hasn’t fallen on your head. Disappointing. Would have made a good cautionary tale for the interns.”
“Morning, Gladys,” I say, smiling in spite of myself. “Give it time. Roof still has ambitions.”
She snorts.
The taller of the two junior rangers pushes his hat up, revealing dark hair and a face I vaguely recognize from last year. His name bubbles up from the back of my brain.
“Sam, right?” I say.
His eyes light up. “You do remember me.”
“Of course.” I absolutely did not until five seconds ago. “West ridge trail? You almost lost a shovel down a ravine.”
His face flushes a little, but he laughs. “Hey, the ravine started it.”
The other ranger is new—shorter, freckled, and absolutely radiating “please don’t ask me anything” energy.
“This is Jonah,” Gladys says. “First season. He’s still under the illusion that this job is glamorous.”
Jonah gives me a shy, nervous smile. “Hi, Dr. Hart. I read your paper on the adaptive corridor modeling for elk migration. It was… um… really cool.”
My heart does a little embarrassing skip. “Oh. Wow. Thanks, Jonah. You just made the ten years of grant applications almost worth it.”
Gladys thrusts a clipboard at me like a weapon. “Before you start signing autographs, quick update. Access zones, trail warnings, the usual.”
I take the clipboard. The paperwork is standard—permitted research areas, flagged dangerous zones, notes about winter storm damage, sections of trail closed due to washouts. My eyes skim over the map, already overlaying it with my own priorities.
Perimeter walk. Camera trap near Cedar Ridge. Soil sensor by the old cedar stand. And, if I can swing it before the afternoon, the microclimate station on the north-facing slope that I am unreasonably excited to see survived.
“Does everything look right?” Gladys asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll stick to these boundaries. I’ll radio if I see anything weird.”
“You will,” she says dryly. “You always do.”
“Hey!”
She quirks one eyebrow—the kind of look that could make a mountain apologize—and turns slightly to her rangers. “Sam, Jonah, we’ve got trail surveys and a fallen tree to clear near the main loop. Try not to injure yourselves in front of the scientist. I’d hate for him to document that.”
Sam doesn’t move right away. He shifts his weight, looking at me instead of Gladys.
“So, uh, Dr. Hart—”
“Elias,” I cut in automatically. “Please.”
“Elias,” he says, a little too warmly. “If you, you know, need an extra pair of hands for your perimeter check or whatever—someone to carry equipment or keep watch for cougars—” He grins. “I charge very reasonable rates. Just, like, one coffee and maybe your phone number.”
I turn his offer over in my mind. My brain is already halfway into a mental checklist of batteries, SD cards, fresh markers, and whether I brought enough flagging tape.
“Phone number,” I echo, nodding. “Right. Yeah, that’s probably a good idea for field safety coordination. Shared contact info. Good thinking.”
Gladys makes a noise suspiciously like a smothered groan.
Sam chuckles, a little strangled. “Yeah. Safety. Exactly.”
“I’ve got a full schedule today,” I ramble on, not really paying attention. “Camera traps, sensors, visual checks… but maybe we can coordinate later in the week? I’d love to get your input on trail erosion patterns. You spent more time out here over winter.”
I mean it. He probably has useful insights.
Sam’s shoulders sag a little. “Sure thing, Doc—Elias,” he corrects quickly. “You know where to find me.”
Gladys taps his arm. “Flirt on your own time, Hargrove. Move.”
Jonah hides a smile in his collar while my brows shoot high. Flirt? I mean, was Sam flirting?
Sam gives me one last look, somewhere between hopeful and resigned, and I shake away the discomfort that someone so young would have any level of interest in a guy like me.
Honestly, if he heard how I groan and my knees crack these days when simply standing from a chair, any attraction would go flying out the window.
“Good to have you back,” he says, then turns to follow Gladys.
“Good to be back,” I reply genuinely.
They walk away down the trail, boots crunching over the thawing ground.
Gladys is already lecturing them about snowmelt, runoff, and why “giant raccoons” are not a category on the wildlife reporting form.
Their voices fade, leaving me once more with the drip of water, the soft click of my cooling mug, the faint hum of the generator behind the cabin.
I stare at the map on the clipboard for a moment longer, taking it all in.
The park feels like a living thing exhaling around me, all this miles-wide organism waking up cell by cell.
I set the clipboard down on the little table, grab my gear bag from inside—GPS, spare batteries, notebook, flagging tape, emergency chocolate—and sling it over my shoulder.
When I step off the porch, the ground gives slightly under my boots, spongey with thaw. The air is colder in the shade of the trees, the mist thicker where the sun hasn’t yet reached.
Something moves at the very edge of my vision. A shape in the tree line. Tall. Still. Not tree, not rock, not quite nothing.
I stop.
My breath fogs in front of me. The forest holds its own breath, just for a second. My heartbeat ticks louder in my ears.
The shape shifts—subtle, like a shadow deciding to be somewhere else—and then it’s gone. If it was ever really there.
I squint into the trees, hands resting on the straps of my pack.
Nothing. Just trunks. Moss. A raven hopping along a branch, tilting its head at me like what?
“For the love of brain cells,” I sigh under my breath. “You’re already seeing things, Hart. Day one. Impressive.”
It’s not scary. That’s the strange part. My instincts, honed over years of working in the wilderness, are quiet. No adrenaline spike, no prickling at the base of my skull screaming danger. Just this… awareness. This weird sense of being part of an equation I don’t fully understand yet.
It’s the same as last year.
And the year before.
I roll my eyes at myself, shake it off, and tap my GPS until it beeps awake.
“Right,” I tell the trees. “I’ve got camera traps to check, soil sensors to rescue, and exactly zero time to start narrating cryptid documentaries in my head.”
A chickadee flits to a nearby branch and cheeps like it disagrees, and I smile despite myself. “Fine,” I concede. “Maybe half a cryptid documentary.”
I step forward, letting the trail draw me into the embrace of the forest. Ahead, Cedar Ridge waits, along with the last marker I placed in September—a little box of data and possibility tucked into the wild.
Whatever that shadow was—or wasn’t—the forest is waking up. And I’m here to watch.