one
Phoebe
I grip the steering wheel tighter as my little Chrysler crawls up the winding mountain road. The GPS lady announced "You have arrived at your destination" about ten minutes ago, which is a complete lie. There's nothing but trees, rocks, and more trees.
"Come on, Uncle Max," I mutter. "Where's this dream cabin you left me?"
The April air nips at my face through the half-open window. Vancouver is mild and rainy—I’m not prepared for the bite in the mountain air. I crank the heat up and check the hastily scribbled directions one more time.
Left at the fork after Silver Creek Bridge. Look for the wooden sign with a pine tree carving.
There! A weathered wooden post appears around the bend, the carved pine tree barely visible under years of exposure. I turn onto what can hardly be called a road—more like two dirt tracks with grass growing between them. My poor city car bounces and protests as I navigate around potholes the size of kiddie pools.
"It'll be worth it, Phoebe," I remind myself for the hundredth time. It has to be.
Three weeks ago, I was managing social media accounts for Vancouver's trendiest boutiques. Then came the company-wide email about "restructuring," followed by the awkward meeting with HR. Two days later, Kyle decided we were "moving too fast" and maybe we should "take a break to explore ourselves individually." Perfect timing.
Then came the lawyer's letter about Uncle Max's will. I'd barely known my mother's eccentric brother who moved to the mountains twenty years ago, but apparently, he'd left me his cabin in Darkmore Mountain, Alberta. A sign from the universe if I've ever seen one.
My car rounds a final curve, and there it is—my inheritance, my fresh start, my escape from city life.
"Oh... crap."
I slam on the brakes, sending my coffee tumbling from the cup holder. The cabin sits in a small clearing, surrounded by towering pines. It might have been charming once. Might have been.
Now, half the front porch has collapsed like a sandcastle at high tide. Several windows are either cracked or covered with plywood. The roof—oh God, the roof—sags ominously on one side with what looks suspiciously like a tree branch poking through.
"This is fine," I say to absolutely no one. "Totally fine."
I check my phone: one bar of service. I snap a quick photo of the cabin and text it to my best friend Priya with the caption: My new palace! ????
The message fails to send.
"Perfect."
I park as close as I dare to the cabin and zip my thin jacket up to my chin. I should have packed my winter coat, but it's April for crying out loud. April in Vancouver means cherry blossoms and light rain jackets, not this knife-edge cold that slices through my clothes.
With a deep breath that turns to vapor in front of my face, I approach my new home. The key from the lawyer's packet fits the rusted lock after some jiggling, and the door swings open with a horror-movie creak.
"Hello?" I call, half-expecting someone to answer. Maybe Uncle Max was secretly a multimillionaire who left a caretaker. The silence mocks me.
Inside smells like dust, pine, and something musty I can't identify. I pull the chain on a lamp, but nothing happens.
"Right. Electricity. That would be too convenient."
I use my phone's flashlight to explore. The main room isn't terrible—a stone fireplace dominates one wall, surrounded by bookshelves stuffed with paperbacks and field guides. A worn leather couch faces the fireplace, flanked by two armchairs that have definitely seen better days.
The kitchen is basic but functional—if I can get the power turned on. A gas stove, a refrigerator old enough to qualify as vintage, and cupboards that probably contain mouse condominiums by now.
A narrow staircase leads to a loft bedroom with a surprisingly solid-looking bed frame. The mattress is another story—stripped bare and sporting suspicious stains that make me mentally add "new mattress" to my rapidly growing list.
The bathroom... I close that door quickly. Some things are better left unexplored until daylight and possibly hazmat gear.
Water drips steadily from a corner of the ceiling, landing with rhythmic plops into a strategically placed cooking pot. I count three more pots scattered around, catching similar leaks.
"Home sweet home," I whisper, fighting back the urge to cry. Or scream. Or get back in my car and drive straight to Vancouver.
No. I'm not giving up that easily.
I pull out my phone and open my list-making app—my digital security blanket.
CABIN EMERGENCY FIXES: 1. Roof (!!!) 2. Windows 3. Porch 4. Plumbing??? 5. Electricity 6. New mattress 7. Everything else
I check my watch—nearly 4 PM. The drive took longer than expected, and if this town is anything like other mountain towns, businesses probably close early.
Back in the kitchen, I rummage through drawers until I find an ancient phone book. Darkmore Mountain Supply is listed with hours until 5 PM. If I hurry, I can make it.
As I head back to my car, fat snowflakes begin to drift from the steel-gray sky. I check the temperature on my phone: 28°F and dropping. In April . What have I gotten myself into?
I turn on the radio as I navigate back down the treacherous driveway.
"—expect this unusual cold front to intensify overnight with potential for significant accumulation in mountain areas," the meteorologist's voice crackles through the speakers. "Residents of Darkmore Mountain and surrounding areas should prepare for possible power outages and limited road access as this late-season system moves through. We're looking at potentially eight to twelve inches in higher elevations—"
I snap off the radio. Perfect. Just perfect. My first night in my new life, and I'm facing a blizzard in a cabin that's more hole than home.
As I reach the main road, I pull over and add one more item to my list:
8. WINTER GEAR. NOW.
Then I point my car toward town, hoping The Mountain Supply Shop lives up to its name. I need tools, materials, and advice—fast. What I don't need is the knot of panic forming in my chest or the voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Kyle's: "This is what happens when you make impulsive decisions, Phoebe."
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. I'll prove that voice wrong if it's the last thing I do.
Even if I freeze to death trying.