Chapter two

  Day one

  Location- temporary camp- somewhere in the Thinahtea South Protected Area, Canada

  Fire.

  Sound.

  Smoke.

  Chaos.

  Wind rushing—

  —and the snap of a parachute.

  Ashes startles awake, heart pounding, breath shallow. The nightmare slips away in pieces, already fading into smoke and static. She blinks against the morning light filtering through the parachute tarp, then stretches with a groan. Her muscles ache. Every cut and bruise makes itself known.

  The night had been long. Cold. Damp. The forest floor offered little comfort, and the fire hadn't lasted nearly as long as she hoped.

  She crawls toward the smoldering pit, now just a heap of warm ash and faint embers. With practiced care, she feeds it dry twigs and needles, blowing gently until flame returns. The tiny fire sputters, then steadies.

  Outside the shelter, the forest is still. But the air has changed—heavier, damp with promise. A storm is coming. Not today, maybe not even tomorrow, but it’s out there, creeping closer.

  Ashes pats herself on the face, forcing herself to focus.

  “Come on, girl. You got this.”

  She pulls a few lengths of 550 cord from her pack and stands. Time to secure food. With steady hands and well-practiced motions, she sets to work building a few snares.

  Later she moves through the underbrush quietly, the 550 cord coiled in her hand and her multitool clipped to her belt. The forest is still damp from the morning dew, the air cool and thick with the scent of pine and moss.

  Ashes isn’t just wandering—she’s reading the ground. Her eyes scan for subtle signs: broken twigs, pressed-down grass, faint trails where small feet have passed again and again.

  Ten minutes in, she spots it.

  A narrow path, just a few inches wide, winding between ferns and under a fallen log. The dirt is disturbed, and a few strands of animal hair cling to the bark. A game trail. Probably rabbits. Maybe something bigger, but she’s not holding her breath.

  She crouches, gently clears a patch of ground, and gets to work.

  The snare is simple but effective. A fixed loop tied into the 550 cord, anchored to a flexible sapling. She rigs the trigger carefully, positioning it just above the trail, then masks it with leaves and a bit of dirt. Not too much—just enough to keep it from looking suspicious.

  She sets another snare near the base of a tree where the trail forks, then moves farther along to set a third at a narrow choke point where the brush funnels tight.

  Each snare takes only minutes, but she takes her time anyway. These need to work. She needs something by tonight—meat, fur, even just the hope of success.

  As she finishes the last one, she marks the spot in her mind—shallow notch in the bark, stone turned just so.

  Then she stands, brushes her hands clean, and heads back toward camp.

  Now, all she can do is wait.

  On her way back to camp, Ashes stumbles upon a much larger patch of salmonberries—bright orange and bursting with juice. She grins and crouches beside them, popping a few into her mouth with sticky fingers. The taste is sharp, sweet, and incredibly welcome. She eats just enough to take the edge off, then marks the spot with a small branch break for later.

  When she returns to camp, she eyes the sky and feels it again—that subtle shift in the air. The storm is still distant, but it’s coming. No question.

  Time to reinforce the shelter.

  She starts by carefully untying the makeshift lean-to tarp and setting it aside. The chute crumples easily into a loose bundle near the tree roots. Then she grabs her multitool and a coil of cord and sets off into the forest—this time in the opposite direction from her snares.

  What she’s looking for are small trees—thin, strong, and straight. Something in the two-to-three inch range. After about ten minutes of combing through the undergrowth, she finds a good specimen. With effort, she works it loose and drags it back to camp, then goes out again. Over the next two hours, she hauls back six more, pausing between each trip to catch her breath and stretch her sore muscles.

  Once she’s gathered enough, the real work begins.

  She selects two of the sturdiest poles, sharpens the ends with her multitool, then uses a heavy stone to drive them into the earth just in front of the root wall. They go in deep—angled slightly back for stability. She carves notches into the tops of each upright, then grabs another pole to serve as a ridge beam.

  Holding it in place with one hand, she ties the corners tight with 550 cord, working the knots until the pole is locked into the notches, forming a basic A-frame.

  It’s not pretty, and her arms ache from the repetition—but it’s strong. Real shelter. Something that might hold against wind and rain.

  She sharpens two shorter poles next, driving them into the ground just outside the edge of the hollow—opposite the root wall. They anchor quickly with a few solid strikes from her stone hammer. Then she fits another ridge pole between them, forming the second half of her frame.

  The remaining long sticks go across the top, forming the ribs of her shelter. She uses nearly all of her remaining 550 cord to lash them together, weaving the cord back and forth between the poles to lock everything in place. It takes time—painstaking, finger-cramping time—but by the end, the frame is sturdy enough to support real weight.

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  She makes sure to leave a small gap in the roof, directly above where her fire will sit. It’s not much, but it should be enough to let the smoke out and keep the inside breathable once the storm rolls in.

  With the structure complete, she drapes the chute over the top, pulling it down over the sides so it hangs past the beams like a curtain. She ties off each corner and tucks in the edges with rocks and sticks, pinning it against the wind.

  Finally, she collects pine needles, moss, and forest debris—armfuls of the stuff—and layers it thickly over the top of the tarp. The chute will keep the rain off, but this layer will add insulation and help the shelter blend into the woods.

  When she steps back and looks at it, she sees more than just a lean-to.

  It looks like a home. Temporary, sure—but solid.

  Ashes kneels by the fire pit, checking the embers. Her stomach growls softly.

  .She grimaces as she stares into the fire. The berries helped, sure—but they aren’t enough. Not with the kind of work she’s been doing. Calories in, calories out, and the math isn’t in her favor.

  Her stomach growls again. She tries to ignore it.

  She considers checking her snares but shakes her head. It's far too soon. Trampling through that area now would only spook anything that might wander close. Patience is part of the hunt.

  Instead, she reaches for her multitool and gently buries part of the fire pit with loose soil, just like her papa had taught her. A hidden ember bed like this can smolder for hours—sometimes all day—without burning through precious fuel. And when she gets back, it’ll only take a breath and a spark to bring it roaring back to life.

  She slings the empty water bag over her shoulder and sets off, walking in a wide, lazy spiral. Her goal is simple: find a stream. She knows the lake is out there—she saw it from the treetop yesterday. If she’s lucky, one of its outflows might snake closer to her camp.

  The hours stretch long beneath the canopy. She paces herself, keeping an eye on the sun as it filters down through the trees in shifting shafts of green-gold light.

  Time slips by. Her feet ache. Sweat clings to her back. She's starting to smell herself.

  And then—finally—she hears it.

  Not the faint trickle of a spring. This is louder. Fuller. Water tumbling over stone.

  She turns toward the sound, weaving through the trees, heart quickening with every step—until she sees it: a narrow stream winding through the forest floor, fast-moving and clear, its banks soft with moss and speckled with gravel.

  She rushes forward, relief blooming in her chest.

  It’s not the roaring whitewater she rafted last summer, but it’s still a massive find. The stream is about six feet wide where it cuts past her, the dark water curling around rocks in slow, steady eddies. A stream this size means tributaries upstream. More water. More life.

  A good sign.

  Ashes steps carefully along the edge, scanning for tracks or signs of danger. No bear scat. No deep claw marks. Just deer prints in the soft mud and the occasional flutter of water skimmers. She exhales in relief, then pulls a stick from her pocket and scratches a mark on a nearby tree. A trail sign—subtle, but enough to help her find this place again.

  She circles back toward camp, following her earlier path and checking the snares she set that morning.

  The third one makes her stop short.

  A fat rabbit struggles in the loop, tangled but very much alive. She breaks into a bright, breathless laugh—her first real food since the berries. She crouches low and approaches quickly, murmuring a quiet apology before dispatching it with a sharp twist and a rock. Quick. Clean. Her stomach clenches—not from guilt, but from hunger.

  She ties the rabbit by the hind legs to her belt and resets the snare, checking the others as she goes. No more catches, but one is slightly disturbed—she makes a mental note to adjust it tomorrow.

  Well away from her camp, crouched beside a fallen log, she takes out her multitool and gets to work. The rabbit is warm in her hands. She guts and skins it with quiet focus, saving the pelt, liver, and heart—essentials she feels confident dealing with. The rest she buries, not wanting to attract scavengers or risk spoilage.

  It’s messy, but clean enough. She wipes her hands on a scrap of bark and tucks the wrapped meat into the shaded corner of her pack.

  Dinner is secured.

  Back at camp, Ashes wastes no time.

  She uses the last of her gathered firewood to coax the fire back to life, layering kindling until the embers flare and crackle once more. The warmth is instant, welcome, and hungry for fuel.

  She scans the treeline for a suitable branch and spots a young sapling just thick enough to work with. With her multitool, she cuts a green stick—fresh and sappy so it won’t burn—making sure it has a good fork at one end. She splits the rabbit along the ribs and threads the forked branch through the meat, spreading it open spatchcock-style to help it cook evenly.

  She braces the stick in the dirt beside the fire, angling it so the meat gets the heat without the flames. Slow and steady—she’s not trying to scorch it, just roast it through.

  While the scent of cooking meat begins to rise, Ashes returns to her daily ritual: wood. Always more wood.

  She spends the next hour combing the forest for fuel, working in wide loops from her shelter. Each time she returns with a bundle, she turns the rabbit, checking its color, letting the fat sizzle and drip into the coals. Her stomach growls with every pass.

  By the fourth trip, the shadows have grown long and the undergrowth harder to navigate. A hidden root catches her foot, and she nearly falls—stumbling hard, catching herself against a pine trunk. She grits her teeth, curses under her breath, and decides enough is enough.

  It’s time for dinner.

  Ashes crouches by the fire, her breath curling faintly in the cooling evening air. The rabbit is golden now, the skin crisping, fat bubbling where it meets the heat. She leans in, eyes half-lidded, and inhales deeply. The smell hits her like a wave—smoky, earthy, primal. It smells like survival.

  She pulls the stick from its resting place and carefully lays the spatchcocked rabbit on a flat rock nearby, letting it cool just enough to handle. Her hands tremble as she lowers herself to sit, cross-legged in the flickering firelight. It’s not just the hunger—it’s the weight of everything finally landing all at once.

  The first bite is too hot, and she burns her tongue, but she doesn’t care. She tears a strip from the leg, holds it with callused fingers, and chews slowly. The flavor is stronger than she expected—gamey, a little wild, smoky from the piney wood she’d been burning. It’s tough in places, tender in others, juices running down her wrist.

  She devours more—ripping into the meat like someone who’s been cold and starving for days. And she has been, even if she only just realized it. Not just hunger in her belly, but in her chest. In her soul. The kind of hunger that builds without you noticing, that only makes itself known when you finally taste something that fills it.

  Each bite loosens something inside her. The shaking in her hands fades. The tight knot behind her eyes eases. Her body starts to relax in small, almost imperceptible ways—shoulders sagging, breath deepening, jaw unclenching.

  Ashes doesn’t realize she’s crying until a tear falls into the grease on her hand.

  It’s not sadness, not exactly. It’s everything—fear, exhaustion, gratitude. The fire’s glow, the smell of cooked meat, the ache in her muscles… it all feels too real and too fragile. Like if she blinks too hard, it might vanish, and she’ll be back in the sky, falling again.

  She wipes her face with the back of her sleeve and laughs, breathless and hoarse. It’s the kind of laugh you give when you’ve had nothing to smile about for too long.

  “Thanks, little guy,” she mutters, glancing at the stripped ribcage of the rabbit. “You kept me going one more day.”

  She picks the bones clean, down to the tiniest shred of meat. The liver she eats slowly, thoughtfully—it’s bitter, but full of nutrients. The heart she saves for last, cupping it in her fingers like something sacred. She eats it in one bite and closes her eyes.

  It’s warm in her belly. Real food. Real energy. Enough to keep moving tomorrow. Enough to keep fighting.

  When the meal is done, she sets the bones in the fire and leans back against her pack. The stars are peeking through the canopy now, cold pinpricks in the blackness. The wind rustles the needles above her, but she doesn’t feel so small anymore.

  Ashes pulls the parachute tarp around her like a blanket and curls into her shelter, the fire a low glow beside her. Her stomach is full. Her body hurts. Her heart, though bruised, feels a little stronger.

  She survived the crash. She’s surviving the forest.

  And for tonight, that’s enough.