Chapter 7 #3
I hate how much I notice. And how much I want to elbow him. I keep wanting to touch him. Nothing dramatic. Just… sit next to him. Lean on him. Steal his hoodie. Bother him.
For a while, the conversation stays easy. They talk about routes and supplies and whether Taylor should be allowed to name the off-road rig because apparently she has been trying for months.
“She wants to call it Desert Daddy,” Jax says.
“It has presence,” Taylor argues.
“It has HR implications,” Maya replies.
Miles nearly chokes on his water.
I laugh so hard I have to set my fork down.
Then Jax casually drops a name. Like a rock tossed into water.
“By the way,” he says, twirling pasta around his fork, “I saw Ridgefield’s latest post. Looks like they’re heading this way.”
The air tenses. Miles goes very still. Maya’s eyes flick to him.
Taylor’s smile vanishes. “Of course they are.”
“Who’s Ridgefield?” I ask. “I feel like I’ve heard that name.”
Miles doesn’t answer.
Jax does, because Jax likes lighting matches near gasoline. “Ridgefield Anomaly Group. Rival crew. Think toxic masculinity embodied and wearing night vision goggles. The leader, Grant Ridgefield, is a Grade A dick.”
I freeze.
“Wait,” I say. “Ridgefield? Like that guy from the documentary?”
Miles finally looks at me. “You watched that?”
“I did research.”
His expression gives nothing away, but something in his jaw tightens. Interesting.
“They seemed…” I search for the polite word and fail. “Icky.”
Taylor points at me with her fork. “Correct.”
Maya exhales. “They’re opportunistic.”
“They’re idiots. They lean into what big networks want. They don’t lead with the truth. Or have any basic decency. They’re frauds,” Miles says.
The word lands sharp.
I look at him.
There he is. Another layer I haven’t seen yet. Leader. Protective. Hard and resolute in the least performative way imaginable. It’s just there.
“Are you saying they fake evidence?” I ask.
“Sometimes,” Maya says. “They do believe, but they know what gets views and deals. And funding.”
“They trespass,” Taylor adds. “Harass witnesses. Push into areas they’re told to avoid. And they’re sexist assholes.”
Jax takes a deep breath and holds it before starting in.
“One time, we were both looking for The Beast of Bray Road in Wisconsin, and we'd spent four days tracking reports around Elkhorn. Nothing flashy. Just interviewing witnesses, documenting prints, setting trail cameras. You know… actual research.”
He shoots Miles a grin. “Grant rolled in on day five with three RVs, four ATVs, and a drone the size of a lawn mower. They called themselves ‘the largest cryptid operation in North America,’” he barks a laugh, making air quotes.
“They announced it,” Taylor corrected. “Over a loudspeaker.”
“A loudspeaker?” I blink.
“They wanted everyone to know they were serious.”
Jax rubs a hand over his face. “They blasted whooping calls through the forest for six hours.”
“They scared off every deer within ten miles,” Miles adds.
Taylor nods. “And then they filmed themselves spotting it.”
I frown. “They actually found it?”
“No.” Taylor takes a drink of her beer. “They made it.”
“They what?”
“We watched one of Grant's guys put on a werewolf costume and run through the woods.”
“You're kidding.”
“I wish.”
“They uploaded it before sunset,” Jax says. “Two million views.”
“And because we publicly questioned it,” Taylor continues, “their audience decided we were jealous.”
Miles sighs. “So we let it go, for now.”
I mull this all over, thinking through what I know about this crew.
“Do they know I’m here?” I ask.
Maya hesitates, and Miles looks at her.
“Maya?”
“I don’t think so,” she says. “But once Daisy starts posting or the show launches—”
“No real-time identifiers,” Miles says instantly.
“I know.”
“No visuals that reveal camp location.”
“I know. Though you’re kind of hard to miss.”
He ignores that comment. “No names of witnesses without written consent.”
“Miles, I know.”
He looks at me then. “This is why I had the binder.”
I should make fun of him. I want to.
But the truth is, sitting there with the sound still living under my skin and the tension hanging between us, his laminated rules suddenly feel less like overkill. They feel like care.
Annoying. Smart. Hot. Responsible. Caring.
My kryptonite, apparently.
“Fine,” I say. “Your packet is marginally less ridiculous now.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Taylor groans. “Please don’t reward him.”
Miles rolls his eyes before returning to the matter at hand. “Seriously though, we don’t engage with them unless absolutely necessary,” he says. “If they’re near Four Corners, we’ll adjust.”
“Adjust how?” I ask.
His eyes meet mine. For once, there’s no humor in them.
“We stick to the binder.” He leans back in his chair. “Grant chases headlines. We chase the truth. That only works if we protect the work… and the people doing it.”
A shiver moves over my arms. Fuck, that was hot. And distracting.
I think back over what he just said.
We. Not him. Not the crew. We. Like I’m already standing on his side of things.
Like somewhere in that ridiculously earnest brain of his, my safety and trust got filed under important.
And the truly inconvenient part is that I trust him.
Not with anything dramatic. I’m not handing over my Social Security number or anything. But out here? I trust that if something goes wrong, Miles will get me out of it. That if I tell him something matters, he’ll listen. That he won’t make me feel stupid for being scared.
And somewhere along the way, his trust started mattering to me, too.
I don’t want to be another person who looks at what he cares about and laughs. I don’t want him wondering if I’m waiting for the right moment to turn all of this into a punchline.
Which is a problem. Because technically, turning all of this into something people want to listen to is exactly why I’m here.
As the sky overhead fades from oranges and pinks to dark blues and purples, dinner eventually finds its rhythm again. But something has shifted for me.
I thought the first episode was about belief as performance, but that’s more Ridgefield than Strange Terrain.
Then I thought maybe it would lean true crime by focusing on the unexplained sound.
Now I’m starting to wonder if it’s about integrity.
What belief becomes when the world keeps trying to make a joke out of it.
Later, after plates are cleared and everything’s brought back inside, Miles stands at the tiny sink with his sleeves pushed up and his glasses fogging from the hot water, washing the pan himself despite everyone telling him not to.
“You cooked,” I say, leaning against the counter. “You don’t have to clean.”
He glances over. “Doesn’t mean I can’t help.” He smiles, scrubbing sauce off the pan. “Did you get good work done today?”
The question catches me off guard.
“I think so,” I say.
His eyes flick up from the pan. “Yeah?”
I nod. “I can’t stop listening to that sound.”
His hands still for half a second. Then he turns the water lower. “Yeah?”
I swallow. “It’s there.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean…” I exhale, looking toward the dark window. “It’s really there. Clear. Not like something I can easily write off as wind or editing or whatever.”
He studies me. No smugness. No I-told-you-so.
“Does that bother you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say immediately.
His mouth quirks. “At least you’re honest.”
“I’m always honest.”
“No, you are selectively honest.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
I glare at him.
He doesn’t flinch.
That’s another thing. Most men either rise to meet my edge or try to soften it. Miles just lets it exist. Like weather. Like terrain. Something to account for, not conquer.
I look away first.
“I thought I knew what this was,” I admit.
His expression shifts.
Gently.
“What did you think it was?”
“People,” I say. “Characters.”
His gaze stays on me.
“And now?”
I think about the waveform.
The canyon.
The way my stomach dropped when I heard that sound again.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Miles nods once, like that answer means more than certainty.
“Good.”
I frown. “Good?”
“Not knowing is the first honest place to start.”
There he goes again, saying things that should sound cheesy but don’t because he means them.
I hate it. I love it. I am in so much trouble.
From the table, Taylor yells, “Daisy, we’re voting! Is Jax dish-drying energy or trash-taking energy?”
I look at Jax, who is balancing a spoon on his nose.
“Trash,” I say.
Jax drops the spoon. “Wow.”
“Respectfully.”
“Still hurts.”
Miles laughs beside me, soft and unguarded.
And I realize, with sudden clarity, that the Machine doesn’t feel quite as foreign as it did yesterday.
Not like I’m an insider. But less like I’m standing outside the glass. More like someone left the door cracked open. And for reasons I refuse to examine tonight, I want to step inside.