Chapter 7 - Autumn
“Goodnight.”
I don't close my eyes. Don't settle into sleep even though my body is exhausted and my mind should be quiet. Instead, I stare at the dark ceiling and think about the man lying six inches away from me.
He was military. Special operations. Something went wrong and people died and he's been punishing himself ever since. Living alone on a mountain, cutting himself off from everything and everyone, building a life that's just barely a life at all.
And he thinks it was his fault.
I want to know more. Want to understand what could drive someone to this level of isolation. What kind of wound runs so deep that five years alone in the wilderness feels like appropriate penance.
But I also heard the pain in his voice when he talked about it. The raw, bleeding edge of trauma that hasn't healed, maybe will never heal.
I should let it go. Should respect his privacy and his boundaries and the walls he's clearly built for a reason.
Except.
Except we're here, right now, in this cabin with nowhere to go and nothing to do but exist together in the darkness. And tomorrow I'll go back to town and he'll go back to his solitude and this moment, this strange, fragile thing that's formed between us, will be gone.
This is my chance. Maybe my only chance. To understand him. To see beneath the scars and the muscles and the gruff exterior to whoever he was before everything went wrong.
Because I think I want to know that person. I think that person might be worth knowing.
"Rhett?" I speak.
"I thought you were going to sleep."
"I thought so too. But I'm not tired anymore."
He grunts. Not quite agreement, not quite dismissal.
"Aren't you going to ask me anything?" I venture.
"About what?"
"About me. My life. Why I do what I do. Anything."
"No."
The blunt rejection stings more than it should. "Why not?"
"Not interested."
Ouch. Okay then. I should take the hint. Should roll over, close my eyes, end this conversation before I make an even bigger fool of myself.
But something in his voice doesn't match his words. There's a tension there, like he's forcing himself to say something he doesn't quite believe.
"You could at least pretend," I say, aiming for light but landing somewhere closer to hurt.
The silence stretches. I count my heartbeats—ten, fifteen, twenty. Then he sighs. It's a sound of resignation, of a man losing a battle with himself.
"Fine," he mutters. "Why did you become so obsessed with trails and recording everything?"
It's not exactly an enthusiastic question, but it's something. I'll take it.
"You really want to know?"
"I asked, didn't I?"
"You asked because I guilted you into it."
"Autumn." There's a warning in his voice, but also something else. Something that might be the tiniest bit of actual curiosity. "Just answer the question."
I smile into the darkness. "Okay. But it's kind of a long story."
"We've got time."
I settle in, trying to organize thoughts I've never really put into words before. "I was a fat kid. Am a fat adult, obviously, but when you're a kid it matters more. Or it feels like it does."
"You're not fat," he interrupts. "You're—" He cuts himself off.
"I'm what?"
"Nothing. Continue."
I file that away to examine later. "Anyway, I was the chubby girl in school.
Not athletic, not popular, not anything special.
And my dad, before the divorce, he was really into sports.
Football, basketball, baseball. He coached little league and was always at games and wanted his kid to be just like him. "
"But you weren't."
"No. I tried, though. God, I tried so hard.
Joined every team, showed up to every practice.
But I was slow and uncoordinated and the other kids made sure I knew it.
And my dad… He never said anything mean, exactly.
But I could see the disappointment. Every time I got picked last, every time I missed a catch, every time I had to sit out because I couldn't keep up. "
The old hurt surfaces, duller now than it used to be but still present.
"When I was fourteen, my mom suggested I try hiking.
She'd done some when she was younger, said maybe I'd like it better than team sports.
And I was skeptical because, you know, exercise is exercise.
If I sucked at running, why would I be any good at walking uphill? "
"But you were."
"I was." I can hear the surprise in my own voice, even now. "Turns out I'm built for endurance, not speed. Give me a trial and time and I can go forever. No one to compare myself to, no one watching and judging. Just me and the mountain and the path ahead."
"And the camera?"
"That came later. I was seventeen, hiking by myself on the trails around town, and I saw this waterfall.
Not Blackwater Falls, everyone knows that one.
This was smaller, hidden, off the main path.
And it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
So, I took a picture on my phone and posted it online, just to share it, you know?
And people loved it. Asked where it was, said they wanted to go there too. "
I shift onto my side, facing him even though I can barely see his outline in the darkness. "It felt good. Like I'd found something valuable and got to share it. Like for once, being the person who wandered off the path meant something positive."
"So, you started filming."
"Not right away. First I just took pictures.
Then videos. Then I realized I could actually make a living doing this, you know?
Going places, showing them to people, helping them find beauty they didn't know existed.
And suddenly the thing that made me weird as a kid, wanting to walk for hours by myself, became the thing that made me special. "
"It is special," he says. "What you do. Showing people things they'd never see otherwise."
The compliment catches me off guard. "You think so?"
"Wouldn't say it if I didn't."
"Even though I'm too reckless? Too stupid to check the weather?"
"Being reckless doesn't negate the value of what you do. Just means you need to be more careful." He pauses. "Your father. Did he ever come around? See that what you were doing mattered?"
And there it is. The question I was hoping he wouldn't ask, because the answer still hurts.
"No," I say simply. "He still thinks it's a hobby. Keeps telling me to get a real job, find a nice man, settle down. We don't talk much anymore."
"His loss."
Two words, but they land with weight. Like he means them. Like he actually believes my father is missing out by not understanding me.
"What about your parents?" I ask before I can think better of it.
"Dead. Long time ago."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I barely remember them."
"That's sad too, though. Not having that."
He shifts, and I feel the bed move. "Maybe. But you can't miss what you never had."
"I think you can. I think you can feel the absence of something even if you never experienced it."
"You sound like a therapist."
"I watch a lot of YouTube videos about mental health." It's meant to be a joke, but it falls flat.
More silence. I'm losing him again, I can feel it. The walls going back up, the distance returning.
"What happened?" I ask softly. "In the military. What went so wrong that you ended up here?"
"I told you—"
"You told me people died and you think it's your fault. But that's not the whole story. There's more, isn't there? Something you're not saying."
"Autumn—"
"I'm not trying to push. I just—" I struggle for the right words.
"I want to understand. Because the man who saved me yesterday, who made sure I had food and shelter and didn't die of hypothermia, that man isn't someone who gets people killed carelessly.
So, whatever happened, it has to be more complicated than you're making it sound. "
"It's not."
"I don't believe you."
"Then that's your problem." His voice has gone cold, flat. The walls are definitely back up now. "You want a story? Fine. I lost control. Went into a situation I should have been able to handle and couldn't. People who trusted me died because of it. End of story."
"How did you lose control?"
"Doesn't matter."
"It matters if you're still punishing yourself for it five years later."
"Leave it alone, Autumn."
"No."
The word surprises both of us. I can feel his shock in the sudden tension of his body.
"No?" he repeats, dangerous and low.
"No," I say again, more firmly this time. "Because you're clearly drowning in guilt over something that probably wasn't your fault. And you live up here alone, cutting yourself off from any chance at happiness or connection or normalcy, and that's not justice. That's just slow suicide."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Then explain it to me! Help me understand why you think you deserve this life!"
"Because I killed them!" The words explode out of him, raw and jagged. "I killed my entire unit. Not through negligence or bad planning or tactical errors. I physically tore them apart with my bare hands because I couldn't control what I am!"
My mind scrambles to make sense of it. Tore them apart with his bare hands? How is that even possible? He's strong, yes, enormous and powerful, but that kind of violence—
"You were in some kind of fugue state," I try. "PTSD episode, maybe. I've read about soldiers who—"
"No." He sounds exhausted now, all the fight gone out of him. "It wasn't PTSD. It was exactly what I said. I lost control of the animal inside me and it killed everyone. Friend and enemy alike."
"The animal inside you."
"Yes."
"Rhett, people don't have animals inside them. That's—"
"I do." He sits up suddenly, and I hear the rustle of fabric. "And before you tell me it's a metaphor or trauma or whatever explanation makes sense to you, let me be clear. I mean it literally. There's a bear that lives inside me, shares this body with me, and when I let it out, it kills."
A beat. Two. Three.
Then I start laughing.
I can't help it. The absurdity of it, the impossibility, the idea that this serious, traumatized man actually expects me to believe—
"You think I'm joking?" His voice cuts through my laughter like a blade.
"No, I think you're—" I catch myself before I say 'crazy.' "I think you're using metaphor to describe something you don't have better words for. The beast inside, the monster you have to control. I get it. It's powerful imagery for PTSD or rage issues or—"
"It's not a metaphor."
"Rhett—"
"You want proof?" There's something new in his voice now. Something that makes my laughter die in my throat. "You said you felt fur when I carried you. You weren't hallucinating. You weren't delirious. You were right."
"That's not possible."
"Watch."
"Watch what—"
The sound that comes from him is like nothing I've ever heard. Not quite human, not quite animal. Somewhere in between, terrible and primal.
And then—
The darkness shifts. Something is happening, something my eyes can't quite track but my brain is screaming about. The shape of him is changing, getting bigger, different.
I scramble backward in the bed, my back hitting the wall, my heart in my throat.
"Rhett?" My voice comes out small, terrified. "Rhett, what's happening?"
A growl answers me. Deep and rumbling and definitely not human.
And then the fire flares, I don't know how, maybe he kicked the logs, and in the sudden light I see him.
Not him. It.
A bear. Enormous, covered in dark brown fur, standing on two legs at the foot of the bed. Its eyes are the same dark brown as Rhett's, but wrong, too intelligent, too knowing.
Those eyes are looking at me. I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything except stare at the impossible thing in front of me. The bear takes a step toward me, and I hear a sound escape my throat—half gasp, half scream.
It stops immediately, then… Then it's changing again. Shrinking, the fur receding, the shape becoming human once more. Rhett stands where the bear was, breathing hard, naked in the firelight.
"Now do you believe me?" he asks roughly.
I open my mouth to respond.
Nothing comes out.
The room tilts, and then everything goes black.