Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Tom
Morning in the RV always starts with small sounds.
Something rustles through the tall grass outside, quick little feet scuttling along the aluminum siding.
The hum of the little refrigerator under the counter.
A gull somewhere outside, loud and rude enough to cut through sleep.
The mattress dips when I roll onto my back, one arm flung over my face, staring at the pale stripe of sunlight slicing through the gap in the curtain.
For a second, disoriented and half awake, I don’t know where I am.
Then the smell finds me. Pine and damp earth through the cracked roof vent. Burnt coffee from yesterday’s pot because I forgot to rinse the basket again. A trace of smoke in the curtains from the fire pit outside.
Northwick Cove.
I lie there listening to the world waking up through the trees.
I was supposed to be gone days ago, right after the fireworks.
That had been the plan when I pulled into town with a trailer full of mortar tubes and half a pallet of fireworks.
Set up the show for the Fourth, run it clean, pack the gear the next morning and move on to the next job like I always do.
And somehow, I’m still parked in the same spot.
I swing my legs off the bed and reach for my boots.
Daniel mentioned the storm-damaged trail when we ran into each other in town two days ago. Said the town usually clears it after a blow like that, but half the volunteers were tied up with summer jobs.
I told him I’d lend a hand.
The chainsaw waits in the back of the truck.
Looks like it’s time to go find Daniel.
The folded site permit from the town office is still tucked under the saltshaker on the little table. The map of local trails is still spread out where I left it three mornings ago, when I told myself I’d take one last hike before heading out.
Yesterday’s toast crumbs still cling to the plate in the sink.
I sit up slowly, the RV rocking a little under the shift of my weight, and rub a hand across my face.
Through the windshield the trees glow soft green in the early light. Somewhere down the road a truck door slams, followed by the low rumble of an engine heading toward the highway. Most places, I’m packed and rolling before a month has passed. Here, somehow, I’m still parked in the same spot.
And I’m not entirely sure why. My laptop waits on the table beneath a worn copy of Lighthouses of Maine, its spine cracked from use. A damp towel hangs over the passenger seat. Through the front windshield, trees crowd close, green and still in the early light.
A temporary life should look less lived in.
This place has started gathering me in.
I fill the kettle, set it on the cooktop, and brace one hand on the counter while I watch the morning unroll outside. Sunlight reaches between the trees in thin gold bars. Somewhere farther down the access road, a dog barks. Voices carry faintly. Gulls screech.
Town’s already moving.
By the time the kettle whistles, I’ve shaved, dressed, and pulled the side window open another few inches.
Fresh air rolls in, cool enough to wake the rest of me.
I drink my coffee black, standing at the little sink in a T-shirt and jeans, and watch a squirrel make a nuisance of itself around the picnic table outside.
My phone buzzes against the counter.
For one stupid, reflexive second, my body reacts before my mind does. A small tightening low in my gut. The old instinct.
Check it. Move.
I set my mug down and reach for the phone.
The screen lights with the group chat icon I still haven’t muted and still haven’t left.
Engine 4.
A photo loads first. Three men in turnout pants and station t-shirts stand around the scarred kitchen table at Station Four.
One of them holds up a spatula like a weapon while another flips him off.
Coffee mugs. The ugly dent in the cabinet over the sink.
Morales in the background, blurred and laughing.
Below it, messages roll in.
Someone complains about Ramirez burning the eggs again.
Someone else asks who swapped out his good flashlight.
Then:
Shift changed. Don’t be late, assholes.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
The kettle ticks softly behind me as it cools. Outside, a gull cries somewhere over the trees. Pine-scented air moves through the cracked window, fresh and clean and nothing like diesel, coffee, damp gear, and the stale heat of the station after a bad call.
They’re carrying on like they always do.
Same shit. Same jokes. Same rhythm.
Only now I’m standing in a borrowed patch of Maine woods with bare feet on cool tile instead of pulling on my boots in the bunkroom while somebody curses at the coffee maker.
I should leave the chat.
I’ve told myself that a dozen times. More.
Every time the screen lights up, it peels something open.
A reminder that the world I gave the best years of my life to keeps moving without me.
The calls still come in. The rigs still roll.
The kitchen table still fills up. The job doesn’t pause to mourn my absence.
It closes ranks and makes room for the next man.
That’s how it has to be.
Doesn’t make it easier to swallow.
My thumb drifts to the top of the screen where the group settings wait.
Leave conversation.
Instead, I lock the phone and set it face down on the counter harder than I mean to. I stare at it for a moment, jaw tight.
Leaving the chat won’t change anything.
That’s the problem.
It will just make it real.
By the time I step out of the RV, the phone is still face down on the counter.
Dan
The chainsaw bites into the fallen birch with a dry, hungry snarl.
Sawdust sprays across my boots. The smell of fresh-cut wood lifts sharp and green into the warm July air. I ease off the trigger and the engine winds down to a throaty idle.
“Clean cut.” Tom nudges the cut section with his boot. The trunk rolls a few inches across the dirt path and settles against the moss.
I shrug, flexing my fingers. “Tree was already half rotten.”
The trail curves ahead through pine and low brush, narrow but well-worn from years of people walking down to the harbor overlook. The storm two weeks back dropped half a dozen trees across it. Enough to turn a nice morning walk into a climbing exercise.
Tom plants his boots and lifts the far end while I drag the saw out of the way. We shove the trunk off the path together. It lands in the brush with a dull crack and a spray of needles.
Sweat runs down the back of my neck. My shirt sticks between my shoulder blades. The air smells like sap, dirt, and the faint mineral tang of the ocean drifting up from the harbor. It beats the smell of gunpowder, sand, and death.
Tom wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm. Even pushing sixty he moves like a man who spent his life doing hard work. Broad shoulders. Thick forearms. The kind of steady strength that doesn’t waste motion.
He glances at the trail behind us. “Not bad for a couple old guys.”
“Speak for yourself.”
He grins.
We work a while without talking. The rhythm settles in easy. Cut. Drag. Clear branches. Stack them off the path so hikers don’t trip over them later. The chainsaw roars, quiets, and roars again. Birds scatter away overhead when the engine kicks up.
Manual labor has always been the easiest kind of quiet.
We finish clearing the smaller branches and move farther down the trail.
The downed trees lie in a crooked line through this stretch of woods, one every twenty yards like someone knocked them over on purpose.
Tom stops at the next one, a thick spruce laid across the path at waist height and gives the trunk an assessing look before setting the chainsaw down to refuel.
By the time he pulls the cord again, the engine catches on the second try and the clearing fills with that familiar mechanical snarl.
The chainsaw tears into the fallen spruce, the engine vibrating through the ground beneath my boots.
Tom braces his stance and guides the blade through the trunk with the steady patience of someone who trusts a tool to do its job.
Sweat spreads across the back of his shirt, darkening the fabric where it clings to muscle that hasn’t softened with age.
While he works, I drag the loose branches off the trail and stack them into a rough pile for burning later. Pine sap smears sticky across my gloves, and the scent of fresh wood lifts sharp and green where the blade bites through the trunk.
When Tom finally releases the trigger, and the forest settles back around us, I give a nod of appreciation. “Not too shabby for a city boy.”
Tom sets the machine aside and nudges one half of the trunk with his boot to test the balance before we both lean into it.
The wood shifts reluctantly, rough bark scraping under our gloves as we wrestle the pieces off the trail.
My shoulder joint grinds in a way that reminds me it has been taking orders for more than sixty years.
Tom straightens first. His gaze flicks briefly to the way I roll my arm before letting it hang loose again. He does not make a big show of noticing, which tells me he noticed everything. “You good?”
I wipe sweat off my brow with the back of my wrist and pick up a handful of broken branches. The smaller ones snap under my boot before I toss them onto the growing burn pile. “Aw yeah. These old bones just don’t want to work like they used to.”
Tom’s expression doesn’t change, but he tilts his head slightly, waiting. The silence stretches just long enough to make the point.
“Really. It’s been worse,” I add with a shrug and bite back a wince as it pulls at my shoulder.
My words seem to satisfy him. He narrows his eyes but lets the subject drop the way men do when they recognize a boundary and respect it.