Chapter 1 - Axe
The chainsaw roars to life in my hands, drowning out everything else—the birds, the wind, the thoughts about the past that sometimes haunt me even up here.
I press the blade against the thick pine trunk, watching wood chips fly as I cut deeper into the tree I marked earlier this morning.
This is what I need.
The noise, the physical demand, the simple task of turning standing timber into something useful.
I’ve been working this section of the mountain for three weeks now, and it’s exactly the kind of isolation I crave.
No other loggers, curious hikers or well-meaning neighbors asking how I’m doing.
Just me, the trees and the satisfying ache in my muscles at the end of each day.
The pine gives way with a thunderous crack, falling exactly where I calculated it would. I kill the engine and listen to the echo bounce off the surrounding peaks. Even the silence up here is different. It’s thick and loud, like an invisible wall that actually keeps the world out.
I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my sleeve and check my watch.
Past noon already.
Time moves differently when you’re not counting down to anything, and when there’s nowhere you need to be except right here, doing the work that needs to get done.
My truck sits parked on the old logging road about fifty yards away, the bed already half-full of cut timber.
I should probably load this latest tree and call it a day, but the thought of heading back to the empty cabin makes me reach for my canteen bottle instead. I drain half of it in one pull, the cold liquid washing down the sawdust clogging my throat.
The mountains have been good to me these past few years. They don’t ask questions; they don’t expect conversation and they don’t remind me of what I used to have.
Up here, I can almost forget that there was ever a time when I measured days by anything other than how many trees I could fell and how many loads I could haul.
I’m reaching for the chainsaw again when I hear something that doesn’t belong.
Not the rustle of small animals or the whisper of wind through branches—it’s something human. A sound so faint I almost convince myself I imagined it.
But there it is again. Some sort of whimper or sob.
My hand freezes on the chainsaw handle. In all my time working these woods, I’ve never encountered another person this deep in the wilderness.
Most folks stick to the marked trails closer to town, and even the serious hikers rarely venture into the logging areas.
I stand slowly, scanning the tree line. The sound came from somewhere to my left, maybe thirty or forty yards into the denser growth where the logging road curves away from my work site. I strain to listen, but only silence anaswers me.
It could be an injured animal. A deer caught in old fencing or a bear cub separated from its mother.
Both scenarios that would require me to investigate, much as I’d rather pretend I heard nothing.
But something about the quality of that sound—the way it carried—makes my chest tighten with recognition I don’t want to acknowledge.
I leave the chainsaw where it is and start walking toward the sound, my work boots crunching on fallen pine needles and dry leaves.
The forest closes in around me as I move away from the cleared work area, the afternoon sunlight dappled patterns that shift with every step.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice rusty from lack of use. It’s been days since I’ve spoken to another human being, and the word comes out rougher than I intended. “Anyone there?”
Nothing.
I push deeper through the undergrowth, following what might be a deer trail or might just be the path of least resistance through the trees.
My eyes sweep back and forth, looking for movement, for anything out of place in the familiar wilderness.
Then I see her.
At first, my brain tries to make sense of what I’m looking at.
A splash of bright color against the brown and green of the forest floor—purple fabric, maybe a backpack or discarded clothing. But as I get closer, the shape morphs into something that makes my blood run cold.
A person.
A woman, slumped against the base of a massive oak tree, her head tilted at an angle that suggests unconsciousness.
Her wavy black hair falls across her face like a curtain, and she’s wearing what looks like a purple hoodie and jeans that are torn at the knees.
My first instinct is to turn around, to pretend I never saw her, to let someone else deal with whatever crisis has landed in my woods.
But my feet keep moving forward, driven by something stronger than my desire for solitude.
As I get closer, more details come into focus that make my stomach clench with worry.
Her sneakers are muddy and worn through at the toes. Her hoodie is stained with what seems to be dirt and mud.
And there’s something about the way she’s positioned, something about the curve of her body that makes alarm bells ring in my head.
I’m close enough now to see the rise and fall of her chest, which gives me the first moment of relief I’ve felt since finding her. At least she’s alive.
But as I crouch down beside her, close enough to get a real look at her face, the relief evaporates.
She’s young.
Probably young enough to be my daughter if I’d had one that lived. Her skin is a warm copper brown that would probably glow with health under normal circumstances, but right now it has a dull undertone that speaks of exhaustion, stress or worse.
There’s a cut on her cheek that’s stopped bleeding but looks fresh, and her lips are split, dry and cracked.
But it’s not just her youth or her obvious distress that makes my stomach clench as I reach toward her. It’s the unmistakable swell of her belly beneath that purple hoodie.
She’s pregnant.
