Before

WE DIDN’T TALK much, the days after Griff left for the last time. I didn’t imagine Dad did much talking before I got there, and the habit stuck. He’d get up before I woke up in the morning, and by the time I dragged myself out at what still felt too early for human activity he’d have breakfast ready. Corn cakes, mostly, drizzled with some honey, a little meat in gravy to bulk it up. Then he’d be off for most of the day working, and I had nothing to do but sit around the cabin. After not too long, I got bored enough that I organized and scrubbed and dusted everything I could get my hands on, and soon the cabin looked . . .

Well, it still looked like a dirty, tiny cabin in the middle of the woods, but it was at least fresh dirt now.

I woke one morning to the sound of Dad chopping wood outside. I shimmied into my jeans and fleece and boots and walked outside, standing in the doorway with the crisp morning air waking me up.

Dad had finished and was snapping the cover back on the hatchet, the wood already stacked. He cut wood every morning, assuring me that we’d never regret having too much wood, but we’d sure as hell regret not having enough.

“You’re up early,” he said.

“I can’t tell.” The light was so long that one day nearly bumped up against another, this time of year.

“Well, let’s see.” He pushed up his sleeve to look at the rugged analog watch that ticked away on his wrist. “Five forty-five. Early for you.”

“Huh,” I said, because I couldn’t think of the right response to that information. I crossed my arms over my chest, tucking my hands in to keep them warm. “What are you doing today?”

“Hunting,” he said. “With two of us to feed, I’ve got to step up the canning and smoking. Not that you eat much more than a bird. You should come.”

“I’d just slow you down,” I said.

“It’ll be more exciting than staring at the lake all day again.”

“I really shouldn’t,” I said. “My leg . . .”

“You’re stronger than you think. Can’t let a little limp hold you back,” he said.

I thought about explaining to him that I wasn’t holding myself back. I was pushing myself. I’d walked back and forth around the north side of the shore every day; I’d done my exercises and then some, knowing that I had to improve quickly if I was going to have any kind of mobility out here in this rough terrain.

“You can’t just stay holed up here,” he said. He braced a hand against his brow to shade it from the sun. “And I don’t like you being here without knowing your way around, and knowing what’s safe and what isn’t. Being able to feed yourself.”

“Fine,” I said, frustrated. I didn’t want to hurt myself, but I didn’t want yet another fight, either. Not when we’d finally been getting along. “I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t have to sound like I’m dragging you off to your funeral,” he said.

“I said I’d go. I’m going.” Maybe all we knew how to do was be mad at each other. By the time we were geared up, we were both in sour moods. I took too long getting ready for his liking, I was too slow following him, and Bo was off God-knew-where and that annoyed him, too.

“Stick close,” he told me every time I lagged behind, as if it was because I was lazy that I couldn’t keep up. I went as fast as I could without falling. Dead leaves and slick roots made it hard going, and every odd step made me grit my teeth in anticipation of pain, but I kept up. Mostly. And I didn’t complain.

I was looking at the ground, picking out a path, when Dad threw his arm up to stop me. I opened my mouth to ask him what the deal was, but he pressed a finger to his lips, then pointed.

A rabbit crouched up ahead, pinned in a ray of sunshine, Hallmark-gorgeous and haloed in golden light. Dad started to lift his rifle to turn Hallmark into horror show, but then he lowered it, pointed at my bow instead.

A rabbit. Could I kill a rabbit? Did I want to?

Well, did I want to eat this winter? Because this was how Dad fed himself. It’s only a rabbit, I thought, but that didn’t feel convincing.

I’d probably miss anyway.

I still had to think about every action and motion of shooting; none of it was in my muscle memory anymore. I thought through it like a checklist. Finger position, arm position, aim, breath, draw. Release.

The sound of the release startled the rabbit, but it had only a fraction of a second to begin to move, to react, before the arrow struck, punched through. The rabbit’s legs kick, kick, kicked, then slowed. I lowered the bow slowly, watching it die. I felt sick.

It’s just a rabbit.

The sickness ebbed.

“Good,” Dad said. He was grinning.

I nodded. Good.

He strode out to get the kill. I stepped out to join him, but my foot landed on a slick root and shot out sideways. I dropped, landing hard on my bad knee, my foot out to the side at an odd angle.

I hissed and grabbed my knee, biting my lip hard to keep from crying as tears sprung to my eyes. I wouldn’t cry. Not in front of my dad.

I shifted until I was sitting, my leg out in front of me, and sucked in sharp breaths through my nose, blinking through the pain.

“Anything broken?” Dad called.

“No,” I said through gritted teeth. The sharp pain was settling back into a throb. I didn’t think I’d hurt it too badly.

“Then come on,” Dad said. “There are some traps farther on I want to check, and we might be able to get a couple more of these little hoppers.”

“No.” My temper was flaring, or I would have tried for some nicer way to say it.

“You’re fine. Just walk it off, that’s the best way to handle a little bump,” Dad said cheerfully.

“I can’t just walk it off,” I snapped. “Why can’t you just believe me when I tell you I have to be careful? My doctors—”

“Doctors are really good at convincing you you’re sick. That you’re weak. They turn the body into diseases and problems. That’s their job, and I don’t blame them, but they’re no good anymore at seeing what’s strong and natural and good in your body. Trust me. I know what’s best for you.”

I twisted to glare at him. “You know what, Dad? I am weak. And no amount of believing otherwise is going to make my muscles suddenly stronger. And if you knew what was best for me, neither of us would be here, would we?” I pulled and pushed my way to my feet, standing unsteadily. “You can go check your traps and kill Thumper and Bambi and the rest of the forest friends, but I’m not going.”

He grunted. His fingers tightened around the barrel of the rifle where he held it, a quick, reflexive motion. “Fine,” he said. “Wait here, then.”

He yanked the arrow free of the rabbit and stalked off into the trees. I watched him go, anger and pain throbbing in turn. A familiar sensation.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I said. There was no one to hear.

It began to rain. I didn’t feel like sitting in the middle of the woods for however long it took my dad to decide to come collect me, so I started hobbling in the direction I’d come. It didn’t take me long to find a stick that would work as a makeshift cane, and I moved along at a decent pace after that, spurred by the anger that had taken up residence in my ribs, making a nest of resentment and helplessness.

I knew I couldn’t stay angry with him, not if I was going to have to survive months with him as my only company. I needed to find a way not to hate him, but it was hard. He was just wrong. He might love me, but he didn’t know what was best for me. Not even close.

He was going to get me hurt.

Hurt worse.

I halted. I’d remembered the path up until now, but the sea of green in front of me all looked the same. Had we hooked south here, or kept straight? How far were we from the lake?

I started forward in the most familiar-looking direction, then forced myself to stop. I was being an idiot. I wanted to keep stalking off, nursing this anger, but I’d just get myself lost. And lost out here could be a death sentence, even with my dad looking for me.

I sat down against a tree and set the walking stick and the bow beside me, wrapping my arms around my knees. So I’d wait. In the rain, cold and damp, my leg aching, alone. I wanted to cry. I wanted to curl up and feel sorry for myself, but instead I set my jaw and stared straight ahead. I was sick of feeling like a kid throwing a tantrum. Dad made me feel like some snotty, spoiled teenager, whining about not getting candy or an Xbox or something.

I wasn’t whining. I was trying to protect myself. And I was heartbroken to realize that my dad might be part of what I needed protecting from. The fact that he thought he was helping me made it worse, not better.

A sound rumbled under the rain. An engine. A plane engine, distant but drawing closer. Griff? I craned my neck up to peer at the sky, but the sliver the treetops allowed me to see was empty and gray.

“Sequoia?”

Dad’s voice. Not my name, I thought, stubborn, and I didn’t answer. I should, I knew, but I clamped my lips shut and leaned my head against the tree and stayed silent.

“Sequoia?”

The plane was getting closer and so was he, his footsteps crashing through the brush. “Jess!” I could feel his anger, even from this distance. What would he do once he found me? I didn’t think he was violent, but what did I know?

Your dad had a temper, too.

He loved me.

Then again, Lily’s mom loved her, too; George’s dad adored him when he wasn’t drunk and angry.

“Jess!” He barreled past the tree where I sat, striding forward. The plane sounded louder than ever, and he looked up toward the sound. I could see the side of his face.

He wasn’t angry. He was afraid. Jaw tense, eyes wide. Afraid for me.

I shifted. He turned. His face crumpled into relief for only an instant before it settled back into a frown.

The plane flew overhead and farther. Passing over, nothing more.

“My name’s not Sequoia,” I said quietly.

He gave a short, convulsive nod. “Don’t do that again,” he said.

“I won’t.” I started to rise. A spasm of pain went through my knee; I steadied myself on the tree. He held out his hand. I ignored it, pushing myself up with the tree and the walking stick.

Wordlessly, we walked back together. Slowly this time.

At the cabin I hovered a moment, unsure where to go. Dad paced out to the shed, didn’t seem to expect me to follow, so I went inside. My leg was feeling better. No real damage, I thought. Hoped.

The fire was already set up for the day; there were even matches next to the fireplace, so I didn’t have to fuss with the flint. I got it going with only one wasted match, and when my dad came inside finally, I’d boiled water and set out two mugs of instant coffee. He set his pack by the door and sat across from me without a word. Didn’t say anything until he’d taken a long sip.

“I can’t remember the last time I was that scared,” he said.

I bit my lip. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was fine. I just . . . I didn’t want to sit there, and . . .”

“I know,” he said. “Plus, you were pissed at me, and sitting still is the worst thing when you’re pissed off. I know, believe me.” He gave me a crooked grin and spun his mug idly in his hands. “I know you shouldn’t be out here. You should be in school. Talking to boys. Going dancing. I mean, if you can . . .”

“I couldn’t dance before the accident, so I doubt I can now,” I said.

He laughed. “Take after me that way, then.” He paused. “I’m sorry I told you that—I’m sorry I acted like your leg and all, that it didn’t matter. I want you to be healthy.”

“I am,” I said. “I’ve just got a bad leg, that’s all. I’m not sick. And I will get better. Maybe not all the way, but most of the way—and even if I don’t, that’s still got to be okay. My body’s a bit broken, but it doesn’t mean I’m a broken person.”

“No, of course not,” he said, shaking his head. “I never meant that.”

“I know. But it felt like it, some. I think the same thing, a lot. I don’t always use the right words or think about things right—there’s a lot about having a disability that’s new to me, too.”

He flinched at the word. I didn’t blame him—it had taken me a long time to come around to admitting it might apply to me, and I was the one with the scars to remind me. I wished now that I’d paid more attention to the websites and books Will had shown me, so I could explain things properly, but doing that had meant admitting the possibility that I wasn’t going to get better.

“Maybe you’re not going to be as strong as if you weren’t hurt,” he said. “If you can’t be strong, you have to be smart. And smart is better than strong, out here.”

“Smart?” I echoed.

“Careful. Thoughtful. Educated,” he said. “Not letters and numbers educated, out-in-the-wild educated. I can teach you to be smart out here, and then it won’t matter that you aren’t so strong.”

I bit my lip. “We could still go back, couldn’t we?” I said. “Don’t you have a radio or a satellite phone or something? Can’t you call someone?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “Too easy to track.”

Too easy to track? “What kind of trouble did you get into when I was little?” I asked quietly.

He looked away. His weight settled back in his chair, and it creaked. For a moment I thought he wouldn’t answer me. “I had these friends,” he said. “Started out as a bunch of guys who liked the same things, that was all. Hunting, fishing, backpacking. We talked about living off the land. About living free, but most of it was just talk. Figured someday I’d have some land of my own somewhere with just a few neighbors and none that I could see from my front porch, but that was about it. That was it for all of us. And then things changed.”

“Changed how?” I asked. I clutched my mug in both hands, hunched forward over the table.

“You know how it is sometimes, when you’ve got a group of friends and then one new person joins and suddenly the whole group seems different? It was like that. I mean, all of this—we were never political. I don’t get along with rules too much and government’s all about rules. I have a thirst for freedom and the firm belief there ought to be room for a man to find it in this world, that’s all. But this new guy—Albert, was his name—he was intense, and he wasn’t just talking about getting away from the government, he was talking about destroying it. I figured he was just kooky.” He rubbed his face with his hand. “Probably shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“I want to know,” I insisted. “I deserve to know.”

“Guess you do,” he said. “Anyway, some of the guys drifted away, some of them listened to what he had to say, and I just stuck around because I hadn’t made up my mind to leave. And then it was too late to leave.”

“Too late?”

His fingertips bounced on the table, a nervous tic I’d never seen from him before. He cleared his throat. “Something happened. Something bad.” He held up a hand. “Nothing I did, I promise, but I’d have a hard time convincing a judge of that, and so when I said I wanted out, Albert had that on me. That and . . . I haven’t always been good with money, Jess, and used to like to gamble quite a bit. I owed people money, and Albert covered for me. So he had the money and what happened on me. He said I could go, sure, but only if I kept doing a few favors for him.”

“And you did?”

“What choice did I have?” He blew out a breath. “No. There’s always a choice. You always have a choice and I made mine. I didn’t want him even knowing where you were, so I stayed away.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what favors he was talking about. And he didn’t volunteer any details. “And what about now? Do you still . . . work for him, or whatever?”

“I told you, I’ve got promises to keep. Just one, really. One thing, and then we’ve agreed I’m done. He doesn’t have much use for me, anyway.”

“What one thing?” I pressed. “Dad, are you . . . you’re not a criminal, are you?”

“No,” he said, emphatically. “Oh, hell, kid, I’ve broken plenty of laws, but nothing that ever hurt anyone. It’s nothing bad, this thing I’m doing for them. Not really. I’m just looking after some stuff. They’ll be by in a few months to get it, and then that’ll be that. We’ll be free to go wherever we want, just as soon as Griff comes by to get us.”

“What stuff?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about that, baby bear,” he said. “It’s not important, and it’ll be gone soon enough. Just . . . when a plane comes that isn’t Griff’s, you stay hidden. Stay out of sight, and I’ll take care of everything. Okay?”

I wanted to argue. I could feel the fight in the air between us. All I needed to do was take hold of it. But we’d fought enough. And it wouldn’t do any good. “Okay,” I said.

“You trust me?” he asked.

I hesitated, nodded. “I trust you.” Or I wanted to. Wanted to so much that maybe it was the same thing as really trusting him.

He sighed, shook his head. His eyes were fixed to his mug of coffee as he turned it slowly on the tabletop, like he was staring at it so he wouldn’t have to look at me. For a few seconds, only the fire had anything to say, crackling in the hearth behind him.

“I wish I could’ve done better by you,” he said finally.

“Me too.” I didn’t say it to be cruel or angry. It was just true. I didn’t know him. I thought I might like him, with enough time. Mom did, after all, even if things didn’t work out. I could see myself in him, in his temper, in the way we groused at each other, in our shared stubbornness. But even if we turned out to be the best of friends, he’d never have been there when I was five and broke my arm, or when I was ten and won the school spelling bee. I would always have grown up without him, and no amount of love or trust could change that.

Maybe, eventually, that won’t matter as much, I thought. We’d know each other so long that I’d be able to forget the years he wasn’t there. It hit me then that I had more years left with him than I would ever have with Mom, and suddenly thinking about the possibility that we might get along someday felt like a betrayal so keen it made me rock back in my chair, made my throat close up.

“I’m going to bed for a bit,” I said. I couldn’t stay here sitting across from him. I needed room to breathe.

“I’ll let you rest, then,” he said. I suspected he knew I wasn’t tired. I was glad he let me go anyway.

I shut the curtain behind me and sat on the bed, thinking about the years we’d missed and the years we would have ahead. About what kind of relationship we’d have, what we’d do together. I imagined then that we’d have weeks and months and years; that we’d have decades together, the two of us, to figure out who we were to each other.

We had six more days.