5. The Cabin #6
They ate in companionable silence for a while, the cabin filled with the small, homely sounds of spoons clinking and the occasional pop of the fire. Outside, the light was sharpening to gold, spilling across the lake and the frost-tipped grass.
Addy glanced up at him. “You’re always this put together in the mornings?”
He arched an eyebrow. “What, you expected me to sleep in?”
“I expected something,” she said, smiling. “You’ve been up for hours, haven’t you?”
He shrugged, looking back down at his bowl. “Old habit. I don’t sleep much. Never really have.”
She stirred her oatmeal, curiosity getting the better of her. “Military thing?”
His eyes flicked up to hers, studying her before nodding. “Yeah. Hard to shake.”
“What was it like?” she asked softly.
He didn’t answer right away, and she thought maybe she’d pushed too far. Then he said quietly, “Structured. Predictable. Everything had a purpose. Out here…” He gestured toward the window. “Out here it’s just chaos. No rules. No order.”
She considered that for a moment. “Maybe that’s why you’re good at this. You already know how to survive without comfort.”
He looked at her, something like surprise flickering in his expression. “You’re not too bad yourself.”
She smiled faintly. “I fake it well.”
The silence that followed was softer, more comfortable than before. They were both quiet, lost in their own thoughts, listening to the wind move through the trees.
Eventually, Sawyer pushed his empty bowl aside and leaned back in his chair. “We’ll head out soon.”
Addy nodded, fingers still wrapped around her mug for warmth. “Okay.”
“You scared?” he asked.
She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. But not as much as I should be, probably.”
He tilted his head. “Why’s that?”
She met his eyes. “Because you’re here.”
Something flickered behind his expression, something she couldn’t quite read, but he didn’t look away. “Then I’ll make sure that doesn’t change,” he said simply.
Addy’s chest tightened, an odd warmth spreading through her that had nothing to do with the coffee.
By the time they’d finished breakfast, the sun had risen high enough to cast a pale amber light through the shutters.
The fire crackled quietly, throwing warmth across the cabin’s worn wood floors.
It was almost peaceful, dangerously peaceful, the kind of calm that made Addy want to pretend the world outside didn’t exist.
But Sawyer was already moving. He gathered the map and folded it with precise care, slipping it into the inner pocket of his jacket.
Then he began checking his gear, weapons, radio, water filters, each motion practiced, efficiently.
Addy watched him for a moment, a strange sense of safety in his quiet competence.
“Guess that means we’re really doing this,” she said finally, standing to help.
He glanced over his shoulder. “We don’t have much of a choice. Supplies’ll only stretch so far.”
Addy nodded, though her stomach knotted.
She turned to gather their things, the extra blankets they wouldn’t need tonight, the small tin of oatmeal, Sawyer’s battered coffee tin, tucking everything neatly into one of the duffels.
The weight of what they were about to do pressed heavily on her chest.
They both worked in silence for a while, each lost in thought. Then Sawyer crossed to the window and unlatched the shutters. The boards groaned in protest as he eased them open, letting in a sharp breath of cold autumn air.
The world outside was still. Frost glazed the grass, glittering faintly beneath the morning light.
A thin mist hung low over the small lake behind the cabin, the surface glassy and undisturbed.
It should’ve been beautiful. It was beautiful.
But it also seemed wrong, like nature was reclaiming everything, piece by piece, and humans had just… stepped aside.
“Its as if the whole world’s holding its breath,” Addy murmured.
Sawyer nodded, scanning the tree line. “That’s what worries me.”
They stepped outside together, the chill biting at their skin. Addy helped him move the makeshift barricade, the old truck Sawyer had rolled in front of the cabin door the night before. It crunched against the gravel, leaving deep ruts behind.
Once the truck was shifted, Sawyer tested the door. “Still solid.”
They loaded their gear into the truck, duffels, water, what little food they had left, and Sawyer did one final walk around the cabin, checking for signs that anyone, or anything, had been near.
Addy took the moment to drink in the small, rough comfort of the place: the porch where she’d hung blankets, the bed that still held her body’s warmth, the aroma of burned wood.
She didn’t want to leave. But she also didn’t want to stay and find out what might come looking.
When Sawyer came back, he climbed into the driver’s seat, motioning for her to get in. Addy hesitated just long enough to glance over her shoulder one last time.
The cabin stood small and solitary against the expanse of the forest, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. It looked almost normal — like something out of another lifetime. A place untouched by the chaos swallowing everything else.
Addy climbed in and shut the door. The engine rumbled to life, loud in the still morning air. As they started down the narrow two-track, she pressed her hand against the window, watching the cabin shrink until it disappeared behind the trees.
“Think we’ll make it back before dark?” she asked quietly.
“If the roads hold,” Sawyer said, eyes fixed ahead.
She nodded, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “And if they don’t?”
He glanced at her, a flicker of something dark, not fear, exactly, but realism, crossing his face. “Then we adapt.”
They fell silent again, the truck bouncing along the uneven path, the world around them waking in eerie stillness. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed, sharp, lonely, and far too loud in the quiet.
Addy stared out the window, the cold morning light catching on her reflection. She looked older than she remembered, harder. But as she glanced at Sawyer’s steady profile, she sensed a flicker of something.
Courage.