Tayja
I look out the big window in the living room. At the treeline, I see Ryan trying to chop one down. It's not going particularly well for him. I've never watched someone fell a tree, but I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to take twenty minutes.
He's definitely not an old man. Despite his injuries, he still seems to have plenty of power behind his swings and a surprising amount of energy. His coordination, however, certainly leaves something to be desired. He said he'd been injured in Afghanistan, so how old would that make him? If I remember history right, the war in Afghanistan started after 9/11, so he's probably no older than mid-fifties. That's still old enough to be my father.
Ryan stops and drops the ax. I'm startled out of my thoughts. Is he finally going to give up? He stands still for several long seconds, just staring at the tree he's been hacking away at. He turns toward the cabin and I duck behind the curtain instinctively. When I hazard a peek, he has turned back to the tree. His left hand comes up over his head and pulls the ski mask off. Thick, wavy brown hair tumbles out. His hair is long for a man, just brushing the tops of his shoulders. I stare at the back of his head. Definitely not an old man. He picks up the ax and resumes his assault on the tree. I wonder what his face looks like. The look of his hair puts me more in mind of my original impression of his age. Late twenties, early thirties, maybe?
I touch my own hair, which is greasy and smells funky. I decide a shower is definitely in order. At last, the tree gives up and falls, I suspect out of pity. Ryan looks down at it, his chest heaving. He begins to hack at the limbs. I turn away from the window, walking to the little bathroom between the living room and bedroom and lock myself in, grateful this cabin has running water and indoor plumbing.
When I've finished my shower and dried the underthings I washed in the shower with me, I slip on some clean clothes. His jeans are much too long for me, but the improvised cuff I folded seems to be holding well and the belt keeps the pants from becoming a puddle around my ankles. The plaid shirt I'm wearing also sports rolled sleeves. I tied it just below the waist to keep it from looking overly long and loose. My curly hair is loose and gloriously clean, finally free of the wild knots it had developed after a week of no washing. It's still very damp, but unfortunately, there's not much to be done about that without a hairdryer. My hair falls past my waist when wet and takes hours to dry naturally.
Hungry again, I decide to make my own breakfast. While I poke around the kitchen, looking for food, Ryan enters and wordlessly walks to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. I hear the shower begin running momentarily.
By the time Ryan has emerged from the bathroom, ski mask back in place, a delicious stack of pancakes is sitting on the table. Flipping the last two, I turn and smile at him, proud of my small accomplishment. I've never made pancakes without a recipe before, but I think I've done pretty well. He stops short in the hall to the living room and stares at me, clearly surprised. I smile wider.
"Hungry? I made breakfast," I say, gesturing to the table.
He looks from me to the pancakes, then back to me again. He resumes staring at me and I start to wonder if something's wrong.
"Don't you like pancakes?"
He blinks and looks back at the table. "Yes," he says, and sits at the far end. He picks up one of the plates I set out earlier and begins to load pancakes onto it. I turn back to the two in the frying pan.
"Thank you," he says abruptly.
"You're welcome," I say, smiling to myself. As the last two pancakes turn golden brown, I hear him puttering about at the table, then a loud clang. I place the pancakes on the stack and look at him. The clang was his loaded fork landing on his plate. I feel my eyebrows furrow in confusion.
"I'll eat in the bedroom," he says, picking up the plate in his left hand and grasping the fork, its contents deposited back on the plate, between the thumb and forefinger of his perpetually-gloved right hand. I am about to ask why when-
"Oh!" I say as the realization dawns on me. It's the mask. It covers his mouth, and he's not comfortable removing it in front of me.
He freezes with his back to me, having turned away to walk out.
"Why don't you sit over there, on the couch?" I don't know why I'm suggesting alternatives to him leaving me alone, but instead of questioning my motives I try to make my request sound reasonable. "There's, there's, um," I grasp. "There's a coffee table there and it'll be easier to cut the pancakes than on the bed. I'll sit here," I say, quickly moving to the chair facing away from the couch.
He turns his left side toward me and his left eye studies me. Nervous and a little embarrassed by my outburst, I sit and begin fixing my own plate. Abruptly I stop and look back up at him. "I'll leave you alone, over there."
He looks from me to the couch, sighs, and limps over there. When I hear the sound of his fork scraping against his plate, I am tempted to turn and look at him. But I promised him, though I didn't explicitly say it, that I wouldn't look at him, and that's the only reason why he's still in this room.
He trusts me. Maybe just a little bit. If I can get him to trust me, maybe he'll let me stay here. I'm no more excited to live with a stranger than I was when I first woke up here, but I can't go back home. I can't go back to school. I'm not safe anywhere. I don't remember what happened in the time between riding in the helicopter and Ryan finding me in the woods, but I know why it happened.
It's better for me if everyone thinks I'm dead. Especially if they think I'm dead. The room grows colder at the thought of those men. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself, my appetite gone. Something tells me that they will never stop looking for me, never stop hunting me down until they've put a bullet in my head too.
I stare at the few remaining bites of pancake that sit forlornly on my plate. In the living room, Ryan is moving around. I hear the sound of water running as he cleans off his plate. I struggle to pull myself back into the present and banish my dark, anxiety-filled thoughts.
"Did you like the pancakes?" I ask without turning around to look at him.
"Yes. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
I feel an unexpected sense of pride at my small effort. Not only did I manage to cook something edible, but I did something to thank my unwilling host. Perhaps, if I cook and do some chores for him, he'll be more open to the idea of letting me stay. He's clearly disabled, so I'm certain he could use the help.
"Have you lived here long?" I ask, wondering if he might have moved here recently and finds himself in over his head. Maybe he'd gladly welcome any assistance I can offer.
"A few years," he says, his voice sounding tense.
I frown. So much for that plan. I look out the small window near the dinner table and smile at the view.
"I can see why you'd want to live here. It's beautiful. And so peaceful. It's like the rest of the world doesn't exist and you're the only person on the planet." This place seems perfect for me, except for the cold.
"Yeah, it is. After I..." he pauses. "After Afghanistan, there was a lot I wanted to forget."
It sounds to me like there's something else he's not talking about, but I'm in no place to judge him for withholding details about his motives.
"This is a great place for that," he finishes.
For a moment, I try to imagine what life might have been like for him in the military. Seeing people getting shot and killed. Always being on your guard, alert, prepared. It sounds like a more terrifying version of my life for the past six months, but you can't run away from it.
"I can't imagine what you've been through," I say, because it seems like the right thing to say. But really, I think I have a much better idea of what that terror is like than the average college girl would.
I decide to try taking this conversation in a lighter, less depressing direction. "It must get pretty cold here in winter. I imagine that's a deal-breaker for most people. How do you keep from freezing to death?"
"I stay inside, keep the furnace on, and eat lots of hot soup. It gets dark early, and the sun rises late. In the middle of winter, there's less than three hours of sunlight in a day."
"You're at the mercy of the stove? Do you chop all the wood for it yourself? What would happen if you ran out?"
"It's not wood-burning. Alaska has a huge pollution problem from non-renewable power generation. The cabin has solar, hydroelectric, and wind power with a back-up low emissions generator that runs on diesel. Sometimes in the winter there's not enough sunlight, the river freezes, and the wind turbine can't keep up so the generator becomes necessary. I have diesel delivered along with groceries and other necessities on a regular basis. I've got a massive tank of it out in the garage. I'd starve before I ran out."
I frown, confused. "Then why do you chop wood?" It was clear this morning that he's not very good at handling an ax. The reason why he'd choose to engage in what seems like a pointless activity eludes me.
"What?" he asks sharply, the tension back in his voice again.
"This morning," I say. "You cut down a tree in the front yard." Too late I realize that he's probably upset that I saw him without that mask on.
"I didn't see anything, just the back of your head," I say, wishing I could turn around to look at him, but also preferring not to. The sight of him wearing the mask reminds me vaguely of a nightmare I think I had.
I hear him release a breath then walk back to the couch in his uneven gait. After a few minutes of silence, I suppose he's made the executive decision that the conversation is over.
I pick up my plate and begin cleaning the mess I made in the kitchen. I glance at Ryan once and see he's reading a book. Interesting. I'd noticed the large, full bookshelf in the living room, but I hadn't pegged this man as the reading type. I suppose there's not much else to do out here though.
As I finish up the dishes, I try to figure out the best way to ask him to let me stay here. It's really awkward to ask someone you've just met if you can live in their one-bedroom house. I'd much rather curl up into a ball under the table and hide there than confront him with this, but the thought of leaving this place, especially without protection, is vastly more terrifying.
If I can somehow convince him to let me stay here, I'm gonna need some things too. Like clothes, shampoo and conditioner that won't make my hair frizz wildly, and some other, more personal items I'm certain I'm going to
love discussing with him. I roll my eyes. Curling up under the table is beginning to look like a much more attractive solution.
I remember what he said about having everything he needs delivered here. That must mean someone outside of this little bubble of safety knows that Ryan lives here. Someone who would notice how unusual it was if a single man living alone in the wilderness suddenly began buying items that all but shout THERE IS A WOMAN HERE. What if this someone mentions it to the wrong person?
Very few people knew where I was living when the second attempt on my life happened. The Marshals were being really careful after they almost lost me the first time. But somehow, they found me again. Even fewer people knew about my travel plans to Alaska, but clearly they got access to this information too. What if Ryan has already told someone that a woman is staying with him? What if they are already on their way here?
RyanI've been staring at the same page in this book without actually reading any of it for the last fifteen minutes. I hear her quiet footsteps approach. I look up to find Ana watching me. Suddenly I wish she'd go back to avoiding me, as unnerving as that was."You said you have stuff delivered." Her voice is quiet and devoid of her earlier cheerfulness."Yes," I say, noticing she looks agitated. Is my presence that unpleasant for her?"So other people come here? Do people know you're out here?""A few," I say, confused until I realize how to make my problem go away. How to make her go away. She can't have recognized me, so there's no good reason to keep her here anyway. The solution is beautiful in its simplicity. "The next delivery will be soon. I'll arrange for you to be picked up and you can get back to your life. Just please don't go telling people about me. I came here for peace, like you said, and I don't want to lose that.""No," she says
TayjaSometime later I wake to find a sandwich sitting on a plate on the coffee table in front of me. Ryan is nowhere to be seen. I sit up and see a note sitting next to the plate. It reads:went fishingback after sunsetThe handwriting is atrocious and his note looks as though a child wrote it. I wonder if he wrote this with his stiff, injured right or his non-dominant left. Either way, I have the cabin to myself for the rest of the day. I look around for a clock and find a small one hanging on the wall opposite the kitchen. 1:34. I don't know what time the sun sets this far north at this time of year. I might have six or seven hours until he comes back.My gaze snaps over to the door. That could be six or seven hours that I'm alone. Icy fear creeps into my mind. Bad things happen when I'm left alone and unprotected. I stand warily and step slowly over to the door. I reach out cautiously and try the knob. It turns. I pull. The door opens.I slam
RyanTwo weeks have passed since I carried Ana's unconscious body into the cabin. Ever since she mentioned the helicopter crash, I've been spending all the daylight hours out looking for it under the guise of hunting or fishing. I take the key to the cabin and the key to my desk drawer with me. There are things in that drawer that I'd rather no one saw, myself included.As I head out on my ATV for the fourth day in a row, I again try to figure out which direction she came from. My last three days of searching turned up nothing. She was in pretty bad shape when I found her, but I have no idea how mobile and healthy she was right after the crash. How far could she have walked in the snow, in these temperatures, in the clothing she was wearing?Sometimes I wish I still had access to the internet to answer obscure questions such as these, but otherwise I don't miss the internet much at all. When I moved up here, the equipment and services required to establish an inter
TayjaThe next morning after breakfast, Ryan asks me to come outside with him. I frown as I remember my last experience leaving the cabin. I haven't gone outside since that day almost a week ago and I don't plan on doing so again in the foreseeable future."Just for a minute. I want to show you how to use the rifle.""Why?" I ask, moving closer to the door. If this makes him more likely to let me keep the gun with me, it's definitely worth it."I'm going to let you hold onto it today.""What about the bears?" I ask, remember his earlier reason for taking the gun with him."I'll be fine," he says, leading me to the edge of the porch. "This is a Mosin Nagant. It's Russian. They were designed over a century ago and were used by the Russian military through World War II. They are very reliable."He shows me how to load the gun, how to use the safety, and how to fire it. He makes me repeat everything he did, then he produces two earplugs from a p
RyanAfter breakfast, I stand outside in the spot where the reception on my sat phone is the best, holding Ana's list in my hand. I've been dreading this call even more than I usually dread calling Joe. Just as I'm about to dial his number, I hear the sound of a helicopter approaching. I duck behind the cabin as the chopper flies over, heading in the direction of the crash.Despite my resolution not to leave Ana alone in the cabin again, I went back to the crash site again yesterday morning to see if there was anything I missed or anything she left behind. But as I was driving up, I heard noises indicating human activity. I killed the engine in my ATV and crept up to the site as quietly as someone with a crippling limp can. The crash had been discovered. Police officers, US Marshals, Mountain Rescue, and even news station employees were swarming all over. I quietly returned to my ATV and drove home as fast as I could.I punch Joe's number in and call.
TayjaI wake to hear a helicopter hovering above the cabin. Terrified that I've been found, I jump off the bed and hide in the first spot I can think of: under the bed. In retrospect, this definitely wasn't a very original hiding spot nor was it a particularly good spot to wedge myself, as it had very limited egress options. Never underestimate the idiocy of blind panic.After a few terrifying moments, the whirring of the helicopter grows louder, then the sound becomes more distant as it flies away. I remain huddled under the bed until I hear a knock on the door."Ana?"I'm still unused to hearing that name. Ever since my little sister started talking, everyone's been calling me Tayja. That's what she said when she tried to pronounce Anastasia. It sort of stuck. I'd been spelling it Tasia at first, but soon discovered I could use the more exotic letters y and j to achieve the same pronunciation with a sp
Ryan"You what?" Ana breathes. Her eyes are saucers.I hadn't planned to tell her about the scene I found in the woods, but I also couldn't come up with an explanation for the firearms that would satisfy her."It was last week. I found a helicopter about fifteen miles from here. I think it's the one you came from. You had a bump on your head when I found you. Somehow you escaped the crash with just that injury and made it here."Telling Ana this bold-faced lie is much harder than I would have expected it to be. I hate deceiving her. She deserves the truth. But if I've learned anything about Ana over the last three weeks, it's that she can't handle this truth. It's a blessing she doesn't remember the incident on her own."Why did it crash?" she asks."It's hard to tell. The news said it was probably bad weather." Another blatant lie.Ana's face goes from pale to white
TayjaI open my eyes the next morning to find my pillow wet with tears. I dreamed of Johnston's final moments as he died protecting me. For some reason, we were back in my living room, where this whole nightmare started in the first place. He was trying to defend me from my family's murderers. I was back in my hiding place where I'd been when my whole family died. Just like with my family, all I could do was watch as yet another important person in my life died in front of me. I didn't know Johnston for very long, but he'd been like a surrogate father to me after I'd lost my own.I remember the Glock Ryan gave me yesterday. It reminded me of the weapon I'd seen Johnston carry and use. The sight of the pistol reminded me of him and of feeling safe, that there was someone always looking out for me. My hand itches to hold it again.I hear the water in the bathroom turn on. Ryan must be taking a shower. Ryan Burke. The son of the famous Burke