9. The After #3
He started near the edge of the treeline, where the ground sloped slightly toward the lake. There, he bent low, testing the soil with a gloved hand. “Animals move through here,” he’d explained yesterday in his quiet, even way. “Tracks in the mud. Rabbits. Maybe a fox.”
She nodded, though she hadn’t seen anything. He saw things she didn’t — patterns, habits, small signs that survival had taught him to read.
The traps were simple but effective: wire loops anchored to bent saplings, designed to tighten fast when triggered.
He’d made a few heavier ones too, for anything larger, using branches weighted with rocks and a pressure trigger hidden under a dusting of leaves.
When he was done, he’d marked the area with almost invisible cues: a broken twig here, a faint scratch on a tree trunk there, things only he would recognize if they needed to find them later.
“Clever,” Addy had said, watching him work.
“Efficient,” he replied. “We can’t keep living on cans forever. Fresh meat means protein. Means energy. Means we last longer.”
Now, as she sat by the fire, her mind kept going to him out there again, moving through the trees, checking each line and loop in silence. The image comforted her, his focus, his calm, but it also reminded her how fragile everything was.
Those same traps that might catch a rabbit could also warn them of something worse.
Sawyer had shown her one he’d rigged higher off the ground, a makeshift perimeter alarm of sorts.
Fishing line tied with a few small metal pieces that would clang together if tripped.
“Crude,” he’d said, “but loud enough to wake us.”
It wasn’t meant just for animals.
Addy hugged her knees, listening for the faintest sound beyond the walls. Somewhere out there, the wind moved through the forest, bending branches, brushing against Sawyer’s warning lines.
She wondered if they’d ever get to a point where the traps were just for food again, not protection.
When the door finally opened and Sawyer stepped inside, brushing frost from his jacket, she felt her shoulders drop with relief.
“All quiet?” she asked.
“For now,” he said, stamping his boots. “One snare’s been tripped, but empty. Might’ve scared something off.”
He met her eyes, his tone even, but his look saying more.
Or someone.
Addy swallowed hard, nodding once. “Good. That’s… good.”
He set his rifle by the door, glancing toward the dark windows. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”
But neither of them really believed it would.
* * *
By the time the last light faded from the sky, the forest had gone still again.
Sawyer had checked the traps twice before dusk, returning each time with nothing more than frost on his jacket and that thoughtful frown he wore when his instincts itched. Now, as darkness closed in around the cabin, he was back at the table, cleaning his rifle with slow, measured movements.
Addy sat near the fire, her knees drawn up, pretending to read through their supply list though her eyes hadn’t moved past the same line in ten minutes. Every sound outside—a branch cracking, the wind shifting—made her glance toward the windows.
The forest pressed close tonight.
“You should sleep soon,” Sawyer said quietly, without looking up.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “You’re the one who’s been out there all day.”
He gave a faint smile. “Maybe. But I’ve learned sleep doesn’t help much if your brain’s busy arguing with ghosts.”
She tilted her head. “Is that what we’re doing now? Arguing with ghosts?”
“Something like that,” he said.
They lapsed into silence again, the fire snapping quietly in the hearth. Addy was just starting to think she might risk lying down when it happened.
A sharp metallic clatter.
It came from the woods, faint but distinct. The unmistakable sound of metal striking metal.
Addy’s head snapped up. “What was that?”
Sawyer was already moving. The rifle came off the table in one smooth motion; the safety clicked off before the word even left her mouth. He crossed to the window and lifted one shutter just enough to peer outside.
“Stay down,” he whispered.
Her pulse hammered as she slid off the chair and crouched beside the wall. The air in the cabin suddenly became charged.
The sound came again, this time closer. Two faint clinks, then silence.
“That’s one of my lines,” Sawyer murmured. “North side.”
Addy swallowed. “Could it be an animal?”
“Could be,” he said, though the edge in his voice told her he didn’t believe it. “But animals don’t usually trip a wire twice.”
He moved toward the door, every step measured and quiet. “Stay here. Keep low.”
Addy reached out, catching his sleeve. “Sawyer, wait—”
He looked down at her hand, then back at her. His voice softened, just a fraction. “It’s okay. I’ll be careful.”
Before she could argue, he slipped out into the cold. The door closed behind him with barely a sound, leaving her alone with the soft flicker of firelight and the distant whisper of the wind.
She crouched there for what seemed like forever, listening. The minutes stretched, the silence pressing harder. Then, faintly, a single echo came from outside. Not a gunshot. Not a scream. Just the muted crunch of boots on frozen ground.
Addy’s fingers tightened around the handle of the knife she’d set beside her.