Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
There was a staircase next to the kitchen, leading up to what was supposed to be the sleeping loft, but was where all the camping and hunting/processing supplies were kept. My father claimed that in the winter, it was too far from the stove, and you froze. And in the summer, when the heat rose, you sweated your ‘balls off’ up there.
Beneath the stairs was the, er, bathroom. If you can call it that. It was a self-built composting toilet that had completely freaked me out the first time I’d visited, until I learned that the wood chips or whatever you put in there really did keep things… fresh. There was a ‘bathtub’ made out of a silver stock tank from the local feed store, and a hose sticking through the wall from the, you guessed it, rain catchment barrel. As in, you took freezing cold showers.
I was pretty sure I would prefer to strip naked in the river that ran through the property than bathe in stagnant water.
I would make do, damnit.
It was worth my life to deal with some inconvenience.
After some trial and error, I got the stove going, and felt a pleasant warmth filling the space as I slowly and systematically unpacked all my things. There was an old Army-style foot locker where I folded and placed all my clothing.
I made the bed.
Then stacked the food in the kitchen before giving some of the surfaces a good scrub with some of the soap and the sponge I’d brought.
Finally finished with every step I needed to take to ensure my continued safety, though, I dropped down on the edge of the bed, and finally let it happen.
Let the grief start to flow upward, to overtake me.
Once the tears started, though, it seemed impossible to stop them.
Kicking out of my shoes, I curled up on the bed, body racked with sobs, crying so hard that my chest and stomach and throat hurt from the heaving cries.
Tears burned my cheeks, wet my pillow.
Until, eventually, I did it.
Cried myself into some much-needed sleep.
—
It was a noise that woke me up, something unfamiliar that immediately had me shooting up in bed, heart slamming against my ribcage, as the sick sensation of fear rose up my throat.
The cabin was pitch black, and a cold wind was whipping in through the…
Oh, God.
The open door.
What the hell was I thinking?
Anything or anyone could have wandered in.
Disoriented, I stood in the dark, and nearly fell on my face when I shrieked and jerked backward from something on the floor that hadn’t been there when I’d gone to sleep.
Something… fluffy.
My mind raced with half a dozen critters that it could be, going from a harmless opossum to a rabid raccoon and a dangerous skunk in a blink.
My arm shot out, grabbing the little camping lantern I bought, one that I could charge with a crank or the solar panel attached to it, and flicked it on.
Just in time to see the furry thing rush to the door, looking back at me, before fleeing into the night.
But it wasn’t an opossum, raccoon, or skunk.
No… it had been… a dog?
A puppy, really.
Looking like maybe a mix of an Australian Shepherd, judging by the splashes of color, and something more like a German Shepherd.
Out here.
In the middle of the woods.
I realized as my heart slowed back down that the noise that had woken me up had been him crying.
Crying.
Was he cold? Hungry? Scared?
All three?
Before I could talk sense into myself, I was shoving my feet back into my shoes, grabbing the stick of beef jerky I’d grabbed on a whim at the last convenience store, took my lantern, and ran outside after him.
There was a rumble up above us. A storm was rolling in.
I had to try to find the poor guy before the sky opened up.
“Hey, buddy,” I called into the vast, empty woods, hearing nothing in response but the crunch of the underbrush under my shoes. “Sweet puppy,” I tried again. “Come here. I have food and a warm fire,” I called as I bit open the long jerky stick, hoping his nose was as good as all the stories said.
I’d never had a dog of my own.
My father claimed he had one good dog growing up and didn’t have room in his heart for another.
I’d railed against him for years about how I had room in my heart for one. I even pored over dog breed books, to the point where I had the breed standards of every type of dog memorized, showing him the best breeds for our lifestyle, but to no avail.
I eventually gave up.
And then simply admired dogs from a distance, following about five dozen social media accounts for them. But never having my own.
Not that I was going to have this one.
My lifestyle at the moment wasn’t conducive to a puppy. Besides, he probably belonged to someone. He just wandered too far from home.