Page 39 of The Slug Crystal

"This is painful to watch," he announces, striding toward the commune member struggling with an axe and a log. " Allow me. I grew up spending summers in the Italian countryside. This is basic survival."

The commune member, a young man with dreadlocks and what appears to be a hand-knit beanie despite the warm evening, relinquishes the axe with visible relief. "The energy of the wood resists our intentions," he explains solemnly.

"Or you're holding the axe wrong," Luca replies, flashing his perfect smile to soften the criticism.

I exchange glances with Ben, who raises his eyebrows in amused anticipation. Jake drifts closer to our boulder, clearly sensing the entertainment about to unfold.

With theatrical deliberation, Luca surveys his audience, making sure he has our attention, especially mine. When our eyes meet, he winks, then reaches for the hem of his designer Henley and pulls it over his head in one fluid motion.

"Is the shirtless part necessary?" Jake asks dryly.

"Absolutely essential," Luca responds without missing a beat. "Freedom of movement. Also, wouldn't want to ruin good fabric."

He makes a show of stretching, muscles rippling in the golden evening light.

Several commune members pause their activities to watch, appreciation evident in their stares.

Luca positions himself beside the chopping block, a substantial log already placed upon it, and grips the axe with confident hands.

"Watch and learn," he announces to no one in particular.

He raises the axe high above his head, his stance comically wide, like a model posing for a lumberjack calendar.

The swing starts strong but goes immediately wrong, the axe head connects with the log at an awkward angle, skidding off the side and sending wood chips flying in all directions. The log barely shows a dent.

"That was just a warm-up," Luca declares, brushing wood fragments from his bare shoulder. "Assessing the wood's resistance. "

Ben snorts beside me. "Is that what we're calling it?"

Luca ignores him, repositioning for a second attempt.

This time, he swings with excessive force, the axe embedding itself so deeply in the log that he can't easily remove it.

He struggles for a moment, tugging with increasing frustration, before finally wrenching it free with a jerk that nearly sends him stumbling backward.

"The wood is exceptionally dense," he explains, his accent thickening as it always does when he's flustered. "European hard wood. Very challenging."

"Unlike American soft wood?" Jake suggests innocently.

"I'd be happy to demonstrate on something less stubborn," Luca retorts, glaring at the offending log.

His third attempt produces a mighty crack—not of the log splitting, but of the axe handle protesting the abuse. The log remains intact while several more wood chips explode outward, one nearly embedding into the top of Luca's exposed foot.

Marco chooses this moment to join our growing audience, immediately assessing the situation with scientific precision. "Your trajectory is approximately fifteen degrees off optimal," he offers helpfully. "The kinetic energy is being dispersed laterally rather than vertically through the grain."

"Thank you, Professor," Luca grumbles, wiping sweat from his brow. "Any other insights?"

"Well, actually," Marco begins, adjusting his glasses, "if you consider the physics of force distribution through fibrous material?—"

"It was rhetorical!" Luca interrupts, positioning for yet another attempt.

I bite my lip to suppress a laugh, finding unexpected charm in Luca's determination despite his obvious embarrassment. A flush has crept up his chest and neck, yet he refuses to admit defeat. There's something endearing about this crack in his usually impenetrable confidence .

"Maybe stick to flying planes," Ben suggests with a smirk. "Fewer trees up there to contend with."

"The wood's supposed to split, not explode," Jake adds, the corners of his mouth twitching with restrained amusement.

Luca responds with an Italian phrase that doesn't require translation to understand its meaning. He squares his shoulders, grips the axe with renewed determination, and raises it once more.

This time his swing connects with a satisfying thunk, and the log splits—not cleanly, but enough to count as success. Half the log tumbles from the chopping block, while the other remains standing.

"There!" Luca exclaims, triumph flooding his features. "As I said, just needed to get the feel of it."

"One down, twenty to go," Ben points out, gesturing to the pile of logs waiting their turn.

Luca's expression falls momentarily before he rallies. "I'm just getting started."

I find myself unexpectedly moved by his persistence, by the vulnerability beneath the bravado. This is a side of Luca I haven't seen before, not the smooth operator who kissed me in the pool or the confident pilot who flew us to Venice, but someone willing to look foolish and keep trying anyway.

"Here," I say, surprising myself as I stand and place Alex's terrarium carefully on the boulder. "Let me help."

Luca looks startled as I approach. "You know how to chop wood?"

"I grew up with a fireplace," I explain, reaching for the axe. "My dad taught me."

I don't add that I was terrible at it, or that my father eventually banned me from trying after I nearly took out our garden gnome. Some details aren't necessary.

Luca relinquishes the axe with a graceful bow that manages to make his shirtless state seem almost dignified. " The lady wishes to demonstrate her skills. Who am I to refuse?"

My first swing isn't perfect, but the log splits with a satisfying crack. I step back, offering the axe to Luca with a smile. "It's all in the shoulders."

"I'm impressed," he admits, taking the axe back. His fingers brush mine in the exchange, deliberate and warm. "Though I loosened it for you."

"Of course you did," I agree, not bothering to hide my smile.

By the time darkness falls completely, we've established a rhythm.

Luca is splitting logs with increasing success, and I step in when he struggles.

The others offer commentary and occasional assistance.

The pile of firewood grows steadily, and with it, a strange sense of camaraderie develops.

For a few hours, we're just friends around a campfire, finding moments of connection in an otherwise frustrating day.

As the fire finally roars to life, Luca catches my eye across the flames. His smile is different now, less practiced and more genuine. I smile back, something warm unfurling in my chest that has nothing to do with the heat of the fire.

Even Alex seems content, exploring his terrarium as the first flames of the fire cast dancing shadows through the glass.

I watch the blue snail and wonder if some part of him appreciates this moment of peace.

If somewhere inside that spiral shell, the human Alex observes our growing bonds with confusion or understanding.

Sunday, 7:14PM. Dinner with the commune members proves to be less of a spiritual awakening and more of an awkward potluck, with earnest discussions about energy alignment punctuated by requests to pass the vegan lasagna.

I push food around my plate, stomach still unsettled from our disappointing search and my earlier car sickness. Alex munches contentedly on fresh lettuce in his terrarium beside me, blissfully unaware of the existential conversations swirling around us.

As the meal winds down and people begin drifting toward their cabins, Marco leans close, his voice soft against the background of clinking dishes and murmured goodnights.

"The sky here is remarkable," he says, his scholarly tone warmed by genuine enthusiasm.

"Away from city lights, the stars reveal themselves completely.

Would you like to see? There's roof access from our cabin. "

I glance across the table where Ben is deep in conversation with a silver-haired woman about the metaphysical properties of mushrooms, while Jake and Luca appear trapped in a one-sided discourse about chakra alignment delivered by our dreadlocked host. None of them seem likely to break free any time soon.

"That sounds perfect," I reply, surprising myself with how much I mean it. After a day of frustration and disappointment, the idea of quiet stargazing feels like a balm.

Marco helps me gather Alex's terrarium, careful to ensure the lid is secure. "He'll enjoy the fresher air," he says, his fingers gentle on the glass. "Gastropods are surprisingly sensitive to atmospheric conditions."

We slip away from the dining area unnoticed, following a dirt path to the small cabin we've been assigned.

The night air carries the scent of herbs and woodsmoke, surprisingly pleasant after the incense-heavy commune spaces.

Marco finds the ladder to the roof—little more than sturdy wooden slats attached to the cabin's back wall—and takes Alex's terrarium from me.

"I'll go first," he offers, tucking the glass box carefully under one arm. "To ensure it's safe."

I watch him climb with measured movements, impressed by how he balances academic precision with unexpected physical grace. At the top, he disappears briefly before his face reappears over the edge.

"It's perfect," he calls down softly. "And there are chairs already here."

The ladder feels precarious beneath my hands, but I climb steadily, focusing on the stars that grow more visible with each step.

Marco's hand appears as I reach the top, warm and steady as he helps me onto the flat tiled roof.

The simple contact sends a surprising flutter through my chest that I blame on the altitude.