Her Nice Revenge

a

to chop one down. It's not going particularly well for him. I've never watched

s 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 re

ctively. 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 ba

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 t

ants 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 fr

itchen, looking for food, Ryan enters and wordlessly walks to the bathroom

pping the last two, I turn and smile at him, proud of my small accomplishment. I've never made pancakes without a recipe before, b

akfast," I say, ges

ck to me again. He resumes staring at me

ou like

he far end. He picks up one of the plates I set out earlier and begi

," he says

im puttering about at the table, then a loud clang. I place the pancakes on the stack and look a

rasping the fork, its contents deposited back on the plate, between the thumb a

It's the mask. It covers his mouth, and he's

ack to me, having tur

questioning my motives I try to make my request sound reasonable. "There's, there's, um," I grasp. "There's a coffee table there an

a little embarrassed by my outburst, I sit and begin fixing my own plate.

ing against his plate, I am tempted to turn and look at him. But I promised him, though I didn't ex

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

the thought of those men. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself, my appetite gone. Something tells me th

room, Ryan is moving around. I hear the sound of water running as he cleans off his plate.

es?" I ask without turni

Than

re we

but I did something to thank my unwilling host. Perhaps, if I cook and do some chores for him, he'll b

have moved here recently and finds himself in over his he

e says, his voic

look out the small window near the

. It's like the rest of the world doesn't exist and you're the only per

uses. "After Afghanistan, there

s not talking about, but I'm in no place to jud

t place for tha

people getting shot and killed. Always being on your guard, alert, prepared. It sounds like

ike the right thing to say. But really, I think I have a much better

direction. "It must get pretty cold here in winter. I imagine that's

. It gets dark early, and the sun rises late. In the middle o

you chop all the wood for it yoursel

ions 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 nece

rning that he's not very good at handling an ax. The reason why he'd

ply, the tension bac

he front yard." Too late I realize that he's pro

ould turn around to look at him, but also preferring not to. The sight

is uneven gait. After a few minutes of silence, I suppose he

e he's reading a book. Interesting. I'd noticed the large, full bookshelf in the living room, but

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 ther

ings too. Like clothes, shampoo and conditioner that won't make my hair f

Curling up under the table is beginning to

of safety knows that Ryan lives here. Someone who would notice how unusual it was if a single man living alone in the wilderne

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 acces