“I hate this,” she said. “I hate this so much.”
“Being here?” I asked, a lump starting to form in my throat.
“No,” she said. “Yes. I don’t know. Both. I hate being so vulnerable. I hate having to depend on someone else to take care of me. You shouldn’t have to do this.”
“But I want to. I offered.”
“I hate that you have to protect me. That you have to risk your own safety for me. I’m independent. I always have been. I am strong and can do things for myself,” she said. “But here I am, needing someone to take care of me. You shouldn’t have to do that. You are too kind and too sweet, and you’re sharing your home with me, and all I can do is sit here and be scared and frustrated and terrified and useless.”
“You don’t have anything you need to be upset about when it comes to me,” I said. “I understand being upset about everything else. I get that. But you don’t have to add me to that list. I don’t mind helping you out.”
“I should be able to handle this myself,” she muttered.
“How? By trying to talk sense into these guys?” I asked. “Look, it’s okay to be vulnerable sometimes. To ask for help. Especially when it’s something no rational person could expect one human being to deal with. I’d say someone stalking you and trying to kill you would fit into that description.”
“Would you?” she asked suddenly.
“Would I what?”
“Would you accept help from someone else about a problem you had?”
I wanted to answer yes. I wanted to tell her that of course I would, because that would make her feel better about accepting it from me. But that would be manipulative. It would be a lie.
“No,” I said. “I probably wouldn’t.”
Nodding, she picked up her fork again, stabbing it into the pasta and swirling it around. She picked it up like she was going to eat it and then put it down again. Without another word, she got up from the table and walked away, going to the bedroom and shutting the door.
I sighed. It was going to be a sleeping bag night, then.
I finished eating alone, trying to blot out the thoughts in my mind. I wasn’t angry with her. I was angry with myself. She was absolutely right. I would be just as upset as she was if I were in this situation. Hell, I probably wouldn’t have even had the presence of mind to accept the help in the first place. I would just be dead already.
When I finished my plate, I took it to the sink and washed it off. Then I wrapped her plate in plastic and put it in the refrigerator before finishing the rest of the dishes. After that was done, I grabbed the book off the coffee table and brought it into the short hallway, placing it on the small buffet table across from the bedroom door, standing it so she would see it if she came out for any reason. Then I knocked.
“I’m going on a perimeter walk. I have keys, so I’ll lock up. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” I said, then cleared my throat. “Your book is on the buffet table.”
With that, I went into the living room, unlocked the gun case I had there, retrieved my rifle, and put on my coat. As I opened the front door, I heard the bedroom door open briefly and then shut again. When I looked back over my shoulder, the book on the buffet table was gone. The smallest smile reached my lips, and I walked outside.
The air was brisk and fresh and cold. I pulled the coat tighter around me and took the safety off on the rifle. There were a couple of different paths I could take to do a perimeter, and I switched them up all the time. If anyone was watching me, I didn’t want them to know exactly where I would go and how long I would be gone.
As I made the walk, I kept an eye out for anything out of place. Nothing was shady yet, but at any moment, that could change. My training told me to be wary of things being too quiet, and I kept myself vigilant despite the apparent safety of my cabin. When I was finally sure that nothing was out there, I made the trek back to the cabin.
My rounds always kept the cabin in vision, and I knew no one had approached while I was gone. Still, I made a quick round about the cabin itself to make sure before climbing onto the front porch. Things were quiet now, but all hell could break loose at any minute. How long before the cabin was breached?
I went inside, shaking off the boots at the door and the coat at the coat rack. I slipped on my fur slippers and went to the desk in the corner of the living room where I kept my laptop. In the drawer were a drawing pad and a few pencils. I wasn’t much of an artist, but I was functional. It was time to make a couple of backup plans for what to do in case I couldn’t keep the cabin secure.