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"Damn right you will," I mutter, taking another pull from the flask before offering it to her. "Might help with those nerves of yours."

Pamela hesitates, then grabs the flask, taking a hefty swig. She coughs and sputters, eyes watering. "God, what is that? Gasoline?"

I laugh, a rough, bark-like sound. "Close enough. Welcome to the bayou, darlin'."

The glittering lights of New Orleans fade in the rearview, swallowed by the looming darkness of the swamp. Spanish moss drapes over gnarled trees like funeral shrouds, and the air grows thick with moisture and secrets.

Three

Pamela

Cypress trees loom like sentinels as Koda's truck rattles down what barely passes for a road. The first light of dawn seeps through the canopy, casting eerie shadows across the swamp. I've long since lost all sense of direction, the twists and turns of the bayou blending into an endless green labyrinth. My body aches, a constant reminder of the night's surreal events.

For hours, the tinny speakers of Koda's ancient radio have crackled with the mournful twangs of old country music. The music feels fitting, a soundtrack to our escape into this godforsaken swamp.

Koda's thick fingers tap out the beat on the steering wheel. "Now that's real music," he grunts, breaking the silence that's hung between us for the past hour. His gruff voice matches the baritone, a duet of world-weary men.

Part of me wants to argue, to point out there's more to music than tales of hard-living and heartbreak. But exhaustion wins out, and I bite my tongue. Besides, as we delve deeperinto the bayou's embrace, the music’s somber tones seem oddly appropriate.

The truck slows, tires crunching on gravel and fallen branches. Koda cuts the engine, and sudden silence descends, broken only by the swamp's awakening chorus. "We're here," he announces, his voice rough from cigarettes and disuse.

I peer through the misty windshield, wondering what "here" could mean in this wilderness. And more importantly, what it means for me.

I peer through the windshield.Hereis a weathered cabin, half-hidden by moss-draped trees and morning mist. It looks like something out of a Southern Gothic novel, beautiful and slightly ominous.

"Come on," Koda says, already out of the car and scanning our surroundings. "Let's get inside before those damn mosquitoes carry us off."

I stumble out, my legs stiff from the long ride. The humidity hits me like a wall, and I can already feel my hair frizzing. Koda grabs our bags from the trunk and heads for the cabin, his massive frame moving with surprising grace.

Inside, the cabin is sparse but clean. A main room serves as both living area and kitchen, with a small hallway leading to what I assume are bedrooms. It's simple, functional, and utterly isolated.

Koda drops the bags and turns to me, his yellow eyes intense. "Alright, listen up. This place is safe, but only if we follow the rules."

I nod, trying to look more composed than I feel. "Okay. What are the rules?"

He paces, ticking off points on his fingers. "One, you don't leave the cabin without me. Period. Two, no phones, no internet, no contact with the outside world. Three, if you hear or see anything suspicious, you tell me immediately."

His tone leaves no room for argument, and I feel a flicker of annoyance. "Anything else?" I ask, unable to keep a hint of sarcasm from my voice.

Koda's eyes narrow. "Yeah. You do what I say, when I say it. No questions, no hesitation. It could mean the difference between life and death out here."

I bite back a retort, reminding myself that this intimidating orc is the only thing standing between me and a gang that wants me dead. Instead, I take a deep breath and nod. "I understand."

His expression softens slightly. "Look, I don’t need any sass. I rather liked my downtown apartment, do you know how long it took me to get that thing?"

"I know," I say.

He grunts in acknowledgment, then gestures to the hallway. "Bathroom's down there if you want to freshen up. I'll see what we've got for breakfast."

As I head to the bathroom, I watch Koda move around the small kitchen. His massive frame fills the space, muscles rippling under his t-shirt as he reaches for cabinets. There's a raw, primal energy about him that's both intimidating and... something else I'm not ready to name.

In the bathroom, I splash water on my face and try to tame my hair. The woman in the mirror looks like a stranger with eyes wide, skin pale, hair a wild mess. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I've survived Katrina's aftermath; I can survive this.

When I return to the main room, Koda's at the stove, the smell of coffee and something savory filling the air. My stomach growls, reminding me it's been hours since I last ate.

"Hope you like gator sausage," Koda says without turning around. "It's what we've got."

"Gator sausage?" I reply, imagining him wrestling gators with a knife in his teeth. "The coffee, however I can go for."