Page 6

Chapter Six

AUTUMN

T wo days later, I fall out of bed gasping for breath, my arms wide and desperate. The planter with the dead orchid crashes onto the floor beside me, spilling dirt everywhere. I reach for my throat. My fingers graze the sensitive part of my neck, but it’s not hurt or even sore. That dream felt so real. It felt like I was being strangled, I couldn’t breathe. That tingle in my heart is there again and tugs me up and into action. I rise, thinking I need to check on Colton and make him some breakfast. But as I swing my legs off the bed, the memories hit me. Somehow in the first hours of the morning, I always seem to forget the truth. A part of me wants to wake up and pretend like this week never happened, but as the reality settles once again, I sink back into bed. What is there to wake up for? My brother—no, my entire family—is gone.

* * *

Sleep eludes me all morning. Every time my crying would cease and my mind would calm, the annoying tingle in my chest would bring me back to consciousness. Now, it’s another twisting growl that brings me to my feet in search of something to eat. The tile floor is cold as I pad my way into the kitchen. Each cupboard I open remains bare. I never went grocery shopping after Colton destroyed the house. In the farthest cabinet on the wall, there’s a bunch of empty boxes inside. I toss them to the floor. Ignoring the sensation in my chest, I rise up on my tip toes to reach the next shelf. More empty boxes. I push them aside until my hand snags on something and pull it back down with me. Instant oatmeal. Brown sugar cinnamon—the worst flavor, in my opinion—but it was Colton’s favorite.

Sniffling back tears, I reach for a bowl and fill the teapot in the sink. Flicking the starter, I light a match and ignite the flame before placing the teapot on the stove. The electricity hasn’t been on in years, but Colton always used to make sure we had gas and matches for the stove. Now, I’ll have to remember to do that. That and many other things Colton always took care of. Chopping wood for the fireplace in the winter, trapping the mice that always seem to wiggle in during the cool fall months, and of course, shoveling snow. Today is the deadline to show up to the Gun Lot and speak to Tom. Something inside me wants to crawl deep under my pillows and never come out, but a part of me knows I need that job. I’m going to need the money to survive … alone. The word itself seems like a curse. Alone. I’m completely alone.

The bowl in my hands drops to the floor and shatters as pain tears through me. I fall to my knees, the porcelain crunches under me, embedding into my skin. But my knee is nothing compared to the excruciating pain radiating through me. My fists clench as a tear runs down my cheek. “My leg!” I cry, reaching for it.

Cold metal teeth penetrate my ankle, blood oozes from its bite. I twist and fight in its grip but it only bites down farther. The cold seeping into my veins, my bones. It spreads through me, my arms grow weak and my breath comes in shallow spurts. Even as the blinding pain steals my breath, my eyes can clearly see that there is no puncture wound on my leg, no blood either. Utter confusion trickles in around the pain still reverberating through me.

The pain rises, searing through my veins to my heart. My throat grows itchy and it becomes hard to swallow. A sense of urgency calls me shakily to my feet. The phantom pain in my ankle still throbs as I hobble to the door. With every step it seems to ease slightly until only the burn in my heart rising to my throat remains a reminder that something is terribly wrong.

The door slams behind me as I dash out of the house, spin to my right towards the forest, and break into a run between the overgrown vegetable garden. Its brown vines snaking toward me serves as a reminder of all that I’ve given up on.

I reach the line of trees and enter the wood with only a fleeting thought of my brother’s late nights and wondering if it had anything to do with his fate. The pain guides me forward, lurching at times and constantly driving me to hurry. The incessant crunch of leaves underfoot grows numb in my ears. The wind rustles from somewhere high above in the canopy, but down where I run the sun is rarely seen. The pain intensifies with every step. I’m getting closer to the source. This strange pull feels like how I felt when Colton was … hurt. But this time it’s more than a feeling, it’s intense, as if my heart were answering an unspoken call and will only calm when I oblige.

My gut squirms as it leads me between two overgrown trees, my hands tremble as they part a low-hanging branch. The woods fall silent around me. Not a bird chirping, the wind is no longer whistling through the leaves above. The branches under my hand don’t rustle in the slightest when I let them go. Maybe my mind is in shock from the sight before me. My eyes lock with a pair of green, pain-filled eyes. Surprise flashes through its widening eyes. The anguish in my chest turns to only an annoying tingle. Behind those pleading eyes lay a large, light brown wolf. It’s twice the size of anything I’ve seen on television (back when we could afford it).

My first instinct, surprisingly, is not to run. I step forward. The sensation in my heart dims with every step. Something in those green eyes tells me he won’t hurt me. They watch me approach, and the surprise has shifted to something else. It’s been a while since I’ve seen it. I almost didn’t recognize it for what it was. Hope .

Metal clanks behind him, then my attention snags on the large metal trap penetrating his hind leg like teeth. He’s trapped. He’s hurt. My sixth sense has led me to something that needed help. It failed me when it came to Colton, but this … this is someone—or something—that I can help. There has to be something I can do. I need to.

The bear trap glistens in the high sun. Its large jaws filled with metal teeth thicker than any I’ve ever seen at the Gun Lot. The wolf studies me as I step ever closer. Colton’s death must have numbed me because I’m not scared to approach an angry and scared wolf in the middle of the woods. He doesn’t move, doesn’t lunge as I step within bite range and step around to the trap.

The trap is even bigger up close. I didn’t know they made them this big. It’s too large to trap a normal-size bear. It’s almost as if these trappers knew what they were hunting. My eyes meet the wolf’s again. He’s watching me, tense, almost human-like.

“What are you?” I whisper to myself, obviously, wolves don’t speak.

I’m familiar with all the different traps that we sold at work. Tom made sure that we all knew how to use them one, for safety, and two, so we could show the customer. This particular trap is your typical bear trap. It requires pressure on both sides to release the clawed teeth clamped down on the wolf’s leg, but due to its size, and probably its weight, I don’t know if I can manage it alone. I make the mistake of meeting the wolf’s green eyes again, so much hope resides there. For his sake, I hope that I can deliver.

I place my feet on either side of the trap, it’s a strain even in the leggings I’ve been wearing for a few days. With my feet firmly planted, my hands grip one side of the claw and I pry it backward. Lord, it’s heavy. The wolf grunts in pain. I wish I could offer it some comfort, but if I open my mouth, I’m afraid I’ll become distracted and lose my grip. I pry farther. It’s heavy. Heavier than any normal metal would be at this size. My palms grow sweaty as I struggle with the trap. It slams shut on me. The growl emanates in his throat, but I can feel the pain in my bones. His nails elongate and dig into the dirt and his green eyes squeeze shut.

“I’m sorry. Oh my Gods, I’m so sorry.” I step backward, grabbing my chest. I’m on the verge of tears. I can feel its pain. “Okay, Autumn, get it together.” I take a deep breath to calm the tremor in my hands, crack my neck, and shake out my arms. “I can do this. I can help. No one else is going to die on my watch.”

My feet find their place on the springs, my hands grip the edge of the teeth embedded in his skin. The wolf never whimpers, but I can feel his lip quivering. Pain and unease coils through me suddenly. With both hands on each side of the claws, I try to pry them open. The metal remains strong. My need to save him needs to be stronger. Women can lift cars when their babies are in danger, I can do this. With all the strength I possess my hands pry harder. Harder still. It’s about halfway open … so close, when my arms start to tremble. The past few days in bed really did my strength no justice. The shaking gets worse, I think it might close again with a clang when a sudden rush of strength greets me.

Click .

I did it. The wolf’s leg falls to the ground, it begins licking his wounds, but the blood keeps flowing.

“Go, go now … you’re free.” I wave him forward.

But instead of running away like I’d anticipated, he slumps over. It’s wrong. Something is still wrong. His eyes look to me for help. So much hope bubbles up in my chest I almost break into tears. It brings memories back of Colton, right after Mother …

With my urge to help renewed, I pull the large wolf into my arms. He barely fits but snuggles smaller as I somehow manage to pick him up and start walking the same route, through the misplaced branches. My path back to the house is easy to trace with the broken branches and trampled flora. The wolf feels weightless in my arms as I hurry forward. It’s as though something inside of me has given me superhero strength. I’ll question that later, but now my focus is on this injured animal.

By the time I arrive home, I shoulder the door open and sidestep inside the house. The porcelain bowl still litters the kitchen floor as I decide where to place him. My eyes catch on the crimson blood still flowing from his leg, staining my clothes now. Clean. I need to wash him off. I’d attempted to wash a stray cat I found in the forest once … that didn’t go very well. Mother was putting antiseptic on my scratches for days. I hope wolves don’t have an aversion to water.

I stumble into the bathroom and place him gently in the tub. Spinning around, I dig out the peroxide from the cabinet under the sink before climbing in beside him and turning the shower on. I grab the shampoo off the shelf in the shower and start scrubbing the dirt and grime from his fur, his skin. The tub is a swirl of brown and crimson red.

I scrub harder. He melts into my arms, green eyes watching me ever so softly.

It takes a few washings until the water turns clear again and I’m satisfied that I’ve washed all the blood and grime off completely. I turn off the water and dab his wounds with peroxide before letting him sit in the tub, gathering his energy as I sop out onto the tiled floor.

“See. Good as new.” I smile, tears welling up in my eyes. I did it. Collapsing against the wall in my soaking wet clothes, my hair is sticking to my face. Finally allowing the tears to run down my cheeks, I whisper so softly, “You’re going to be okay.”

That’s when I hear it, a low grumble. It’s so low I’m wondering how my ears are able to make it out. His paws shake. Everything is shaking, and then it’s growing, elongating. What the hell? His entire body shakes and vibrates with a power I’ve never witnessed before. His leg muscles elongate and grow, his tail shrinks into the bottom of his spine, and his spine is contracting, straightening. His snout is shrinking into … into skin. A nose. His eyes are an emerald green at the edges that now lighten toward his pupil. It’s only accentuated by his shoulder-length brown hair and tanned skin. His dark beard highlights his muscular jawline, then skips his neck, and that dark hair is sprinkled almost everywhere else. Along his chest, his arms, between his eight-pack abs, and from his belly button leading all the way down to his … I recognize him immediately as the man from the woods when I was camping with Vicky. To release some tension, I reach above me to the towel rack and toss him a towel. He catches it instinctively and wipes his face off. I take the time to admire his body— all of it, before turning away, hiding a smile.

A smile that hasn’t graced my face in longer than I can remember.