Chapter 4 - Griffin
She's going to lose a finger.
I can see it already, her standing over the chopping block, axe raised, completely unprepared for the kickback when she misses the center of the log. She'll swing wrong, the blade will glance off, and I'll spend the rest of the evening trying to stop the bleeding while she insists she's fine.
I should send her back to her cabin.
Instead, I hear myself say, "You ever held an axe before?"
"No."
"Great." I pick up a smaller one from the pile. Not the splitting maul I've been using, something lighter that won't take her arm off if she loses control of it. "This one."
She takes it from me, and I watch the way her hands adjust to the weight, the way her shoulders shift as she tries to find the balance.
Her grip is all wrong. Her stance is worse.
She's holding it like a baseball bat, and if she swings like that, she's going to throw out her back before she even makes contact.
"Stop," I say.
She freezes, looking at me. "What?"
"Everything. Stop everything you're doing."
"I haven't done anything yet."
"Exactly. And you're already doing it wrong."
Her jaw tightens, and I can see the argument forming on her face. Good. I'd rather she fight me than hurt herself trying to prove something.
"Hands lower," I say, stepping closer. "You're choking up too high. It's not a bat."
She adjusts her grip, lowering her hands an inch.
"Lower."
Another inch.
"Lower, Hannah."
"If I go any lower, I'm holding the damn handle."
"That's the idea."
She huffs out a breath, but she does it, moving her hands to where they should be. Her grip is still too tight. I can see the tension in her forearms, but it's a lot better.
"Feet wider," I say. "Shoulder width. You need stability or you're going to end up on your ass when you swing."
She shifts her stance, spreading her feet. "Like this?"
"Bend your knees a little. You're too stiff."
She bends them, and I circle around to check her form from the side. It's still not great, but it's not actively dangerous anymore, which is about the best I can hope for.
"Now what?" she asks.
"Now you learn the most important part."
"Which is?"
"Don't hit yourself in the leg."
She turns to look at me, and there's something almost amused in her expression. "That's your expert advice? Don't hit myself?"
"You'd be surprised how many people forget that part."
"I'm not an idiot."
"Didn't say you were. I'm just saying the axe doesn't care how smart you are. It'll take a chunk out of you either way."
She turns back to the chopping block, and I can see her processing everything I just said, the same way she probably catalogs everything: neat, organized and under control.
It's the same way she looked at the generator earlier, like if she just paid close enough attention, she could master it through sheer force of will.
I know that look. I used to see it in the mirror.
"Show me," she says.
I take the axe from her, our fingers brush for half a second, and I pull back faster than I need to. There's a piece of birch already set up from before she got here. I adjust my stance, lift the axe, and bring it down in one smooth motion. The log splits clean, both halves falling to either side.
"You make it look easy," she says.
"I've been doing it for eight years."
"Still."
I set another piece on the block and hand her the axe. "Your turn."
She takes it, and I watch her reset her grip, adjust her stance, everything I just showed her. She lifts the axe. It’s awkward, slow, but not terrible, and brings it down.
She misses the center by three inches. The blade glances off the side of the log and buries itself in the chopping block with a *thunk* that makes Bear lift his head.
"Shit," she says.
"You're still in one piece. That's better than I expected."
She glares at me, but there's no real heat in it. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"Try again. Aim for the center this time."
She pulls the axe free, resets the log, and swings again. This time she gets closer, only an inch off, but the log doesn't split. The blade sticks halfway through, and she has to wiggle it back and forth to get it loose.
"You're tensing up right before you swing," I say. "Let the weight of the axe do the work. You're trying to muscle it."
"I don't know what that means."
I step closer, close enough that I can see the frustration tightening the corners of her mouth. "Let me show you."
Before I can think better of it, I'm standing behind her, my hands covering hers on the axe handle. She goes very still, and I'm suddenly aware of how close we are: her back almost touching my chest, her hair smelling like wood and something floral I can't place.
"Like this," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. I guide her hands into the right position, adjusting the angle of the blade. "You lift" I raise the axe with her, "and then you let gravity do the rest. Don't force it. Just guide it down."
We bring the axe down together, and this time it splits clean. The two halves fall away, and I feel her exhale, tension leaving her shoulders.
"See?" I say, and I should step back. I should put distance between us before this turns into something it's not supposed to be.
I don't move.
Neither does she.
"Again?" she asks, and her voice is quieter now, less sharp.
"Yeah. Again."
We do it twice more—me standing behind her, hands over hers, guiding the swing. By the third one, she's starting to get the rhythm of it, the way the axe wants to fall, the way you don't fight it so much as direct it.
On the fourth swing, I step back and let her do it alone.
She lifts the axe, hesitates for just a second, then brings it down. The log splits clean, and the look of satisfaction on her face when she turns to me is so genuine that it catches me off guard.
"I did it," she says.
"You did."
"That felt good."
"Yeah. It does."
She sets up another log, and I watch as she splits that one too. And then another. Her form isn't perfect. She's still too tense in the shoulders, still gripping too tight, but she's getting it. She's learning.
Bear gets up and wanders over to sniff at the split wood, tail wagging slowly. Hannah pauses to scratch behind his ears, and he leans into her hand the same way he did earlier, shameless in his affection.
"Traitor," I mutter.
She looks up at me, eyebrows raised. "What?"
"Nothing. Keep going."
She splits three more logs before her arms start to shake. I can see the fatigue setting in, the way her shoulders are starting to droop, the way she's gripping the axe tighter to compensate. One more swing and she's going to hurt herself.
"That's enough," I say.
"I can keep going."
"You can. But you shouldn't."
"I'm fine."
"Hannah."
She stops, the axe still raised halfway and looks at me. There's something stubborn in her expression, something that reminds me of the way she stood on my porch yesterday and refused to back down. But there's also exhaustion there, the kind that goes deeper than sore muscles.
"You did good," I say, and the words feel strange coming out. I don't give compliments. I don't do reassurance. But she's standing there looking at me like she needs to hear it, and I need to say it.
She lowers the axe slowly. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. For your first time, you didn't completely embarrass yourself."
"Wow. High praise."
"Best you're going to get from me."
She smiles, and it changes her whole face. Makes her look younger, less guarded. Makes me wonder what she looked like before whatever happened to put those shadows under her eyes.
"I should go," she says, but she doesn't move.
"Yeah," I say. "Wait here a minute."
She blinks. "What?"
"I told you. That wood on your porch is shit. You need proper seasoned wood or you're going to freeze tonight." I'm already moving toward the covered stack near my shed, the good stuff I've been curing for months. "I'll load some up for you."
"Griffin, you don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to."
I grab the wheelbarrow from beside the shed and start loading it with split wood. Good, dry birch and oak that'll burn hot and long. Enough to get her through at least a few days if she's smart about it.
Hannah watches me work, arms crossed, and I can feel her trying to figure out what to say. Whether to argue. Whether to ask again what I want in return.
"How much do I—" she starts.
"Nothing."
"Griffin—"
"Hannah." I straighten up, the wheelbarrow half-full, and look at her. "It's wood. I've got plenty. You need it. That's all there is to it."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the war happening behind her eyes.
The part of her that wants to refuse, to maintain independence, to not owe anyone anything.
And the part of her that knows she actually does need it, that the temperature's going to eventually drop below freezing and that wet wood on her porch isn't going to cut it.
Finally, she nods. "Okay. Thank you."
"Stop thanking me."
"Stop doing things that make me want to thank you."
I smirk, finish loading the wheelbarrow until it's stacked high, then grab the handles and start pushing it toward the road. Bear trots alongside, and after a moment, Hannah falls into step beside me.
The walk to her cabin is quiet. The wheelbarrow creaks with every bump in the road, and the sun is sinking lower, painting everything in shades of amber and gold. The temperature is already dropping. I can feel it in the air, the way the cold settles in fast once the sun starts giving up.
"You've been doing this a long time," Hannah says finally, breaking the silence.
"What?"
"Living up here. Off the grid."
"Eight years."
"That's a long time to be alone."
I don't answer. What am I supposed to say to that?
*Yeah, that's the point*? *I came up here because I couldn't stand being around people anymore*?
*Because every time I closed my eyes in the city I saw Daniels bleeding out and heard Garcia screaming and felt the weight of all the men I couldn't save crushing my chest until I couldn't breathe*?
"Sorry," she says. "That was invasive."
"It's fine."