Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Ava
The morning sun streams through the kitchen window of my rental house, catching the dust motes floating above the small table where I've spread out my field notes.
My laptop sits open, surrounded by photocopied pages from my research binder, sticky notes covered in scribbled observations, and three empty coffee cups that chronicle my progression from hopeful researcher to increasingly frustrated scientist.
The samples I collected are in the refrigerator, carefully labeled and ready to ship to the lab at Clemson. But before I send them off, I'm trying to make sense of the preliminary observations I recorded in the field. And none of it is making sense.
I flip back through my notebook, squinting at the water-damaged pages I transcribed the night of the accident.
The moss coloration was wrong. Not just unusual.
Wrong. The ferns near the creek showed leaf patterns I've never seen in any botanical reference.
And the accelerated growth rates I documented don't match anything in the literature.
"Come on, Ava, think," I mutter, pulling up a database of known mutations on my laptop. I cross-reference my observations with documented cases of environmental stress responses, looking for anything that matches.
Nothing.
I try searching for industrial contamination effects, agricultural runoff patterns, even radiation exposure, grasping at increasingly unlikely straws.
Still nothing.
My phone buzzes with an email from Dr. Venkatesan, my advisor. The subject line reads: "Timeline Update?"
I groan and set the phone face-down without opening it. I know what it says. She wants to know when I'll have preliminary results, when I can start drafting my methodology section, and when I'll be ready to defend my proposal to the committee.
The answer to all of those questions is not until I figure out what the hell is happening in these mountains.
I'm contemplating a fourth cup of coffee—definitely not a good idea given my current anxiety levels—when I hear a vehicle pull into the driveway.
My heart does something complicated and annoying in my chest before my brain can catch up. It's probably just the landlady, or a delivery driver, or?—
Through the window, I see Hunter's Toyota 4Runner.
I freeze, suddenly very aware that I'm wearing my old Clemson sweatshirt with the hole in the elbow, leggings that have seen better days, and my hair is in a messy bun that's more "gave up" than "casual chic.
" No makeup. Glasses instead of contacts because my eyes were tired from staring at my laptop all morning.
This is fine. This is totally fine. He's checking in like he said he would. Nothing to get worked up about.
Except my pulse is racing and I'm already running my fingers through my hair, trying to make the bun look intentionally messy instead of accidentally disheveled.
The knock on the door is firm but not aggressive. I take a deep breath, grab the crutches I rented because the walking boot alone wasn't enough, and make my way to the door.
When I open it, Hunter is standing on my porch holding a canvas grocery bag and looking unfairly good in jeans and a dark blue henley that matches his eyes.
"Morning," he says, his gaze sweeping over me with what looks like concern. "How's the ankle?"
"Better. The swelling's gone down." I'm hyperaware of how I must look compared to him, but his expression doesn't change. If anything, his eyes soften. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking on you, like I said I would." He holds up the bag. "And I brought supplies. Figured you might not want to navigate the grocery store until you’re better."
The thoughtfulness of the gesture catches me off guard. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know. Can I come in?"
I step back, suddenly self-conscious about the state of my rental house. It's not messy, exactly, but my research has exploded across every available surface. Papers on the couch, books stacked on the coffee table, my field equipment spread across the dining table.
"Sorry about the chaos," I say, closing the door behind him. "I've kind of turned this place into a satellite office."
Hunter's eyes scan the room, taking in the organized disaster. "Looks like you've been busy."
"Trying to make sense of my data before I send the samples off." I hobble toward the kitchen, and Hunter follows, setting the grocery bag on the counter.
"You shouldn't be putting weight on that ankle yet," he says, his tone edging toward stern.
"I'm being careful." I lean against the counter, propping my crutches beside me. "What did you bring?"
He starts unpacking the bag. There’s fresh bread, coffee—good coffee, I notice, not the cheap stuff I've been buying—eggs, milk, fruit, what looks like homemade soup in a mason jar.
"Is that from your kitchen?" I ask, pointing to the soup.
"My brother's, actually. Caleb's the cook in the family. I just transport the food." His lips quirk up in a half-smile. "He heard you were injured and insisted I bring this over. Said chicken soup has healing properties."
"Your brother made me soup?" The sweetness of it makes my chest feel tight. "I don't even know him."
"That's Caleb for you. He's getting married soon, and his fiancée Rachel has him convinced that acts of kindness are good karma for the wedding.
" Hunter's expression softens when he talks about his brother.
"But between you and me, he's always been like this.
Can't stand seeing people hurt or hungry. "
I pick up the mason jar, feeling its warmth through the glass. "Well, tell him thank you. This is really kind."
"You can tell him yourself if you want. They're having people over this weekend for a barbecue. You'd be welcome."
The invitation surprises me. "I'm basically a stranger."
"You're someone I helped, which makes you someone Caleb will want to meet.
Plus, Rachel's from out of town too. She might appreciate having someone to talk to who isn't related to half the people there.
" He pauses, studying my face. "No pressure, though.
Just thought you might want a break from staring at research notes. "
He's not wrong about that. And the idea of seeing Hunter again, in a casual setting where I can maybe get a better read on him and this strange town, is tempting.
"I'll think about it," I say, which we both know means yes.
Hunter nods, seemingly satisfied, then his attention shifts to the papers spread across my kitchen table. "How's the research going?"
I follow his gaze and sigh. "Honestly? It's frustrating. The data I'm seeing doesn't match anything in the literature. Either I'm documenting something completely unprecedented, or I'm missing something obvious."
"Can I look?" He gestures to my notes, and I'm surprised by his interest.
"Sure, but it's pretty technical. Lots of botanical jargon and genetic terminology."
"Try me."
I hobble over to the table, Hunter moving to pull out a chair for me before I can do it myself. The gesture is automatic, ingrained, and somehow doesn't feel patronizing.
He settles into the chair beside me, close enough that I can smell that sandalwood and musk scent again, mixed with something earthy and wild that I'm starting to associate specifically with him.
"Okay, so here's what I'm seeing," I say, pushing my glasses up my nose and trying to focus on the science instead of his proximity. "These are field observations from different water sources throughout the area. See these notations about coloration changes in moss species?"
Hunter leans closer, his shoulder almost brushing mine as he examines my handwriting. "The ones you've marked in red?"
"Right. Those are deviations from normal phenotypes. Basically, what the plants should look like versus what they actually look like. Small changes in coloration can indicate stress responses, but these changes are too pronounced, too rapid."
"How rapid?" His voice is careful, controlled.
"In some cases, I'm seeing variations that should take multiple generations to develop appearing within a single growing season. That's not how evolution works. Or at least, it's not how it's supposed to work."
Hunter's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "And you think contamination is causing it?"
"It's the most logical explanation. Some kind of environmental stressor forcing rapid adaptation.
" I pull up a chart on my laptop. "But here's where it gets weird.
I tested the water chemistry from my initial samples.
PH, mineral content, common pollutants. Everything came back normal. Clean, even."
"So no contamination?"
"Not that I could detect with standard tests. Which means either there's something unusual in the water that my tests didn't catch, or the contamination is in the soil, or..." I trail off, frustrated.
"Or what?"
"Or I'm wrong about the cause entirely, and something else is driving these changes." I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples. "Which would basically mean starting my research over from scratch."
Hunter is quiet for a moment, his eyes fixed on my notes. "What if it's not contamination?"
"Then what would it be?"
"I don't know. I'm not a scientist." He looks at me, and there's something in his expression I can't quite read. "But these mountains are old. Really old. There might be things about this ecosystem that haven't been studied, that don't fit into normal patterns."
It's an interesting point, actually. "You mean like unique geological formations affecting mineral content? Or endemic species that haven't been properly documented?"
"Something like that." He's choosing his words carefully. "The point is, maybe you're not missing something obvious. Maybe you're seeing something that hasn't been documented before because no one's looked this closely."
The idea is both exciting and terrifying. Discovering something genuinely new could make my dissertation. But it would also make it much harder to defend. Novel findings require extraordinary evidence.