Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
That was it.
No more social media.
No laptop with wifi to make the hours pass more quickly.
“It’ll all shake out,” I told myself out loud, feeling another stab of grief at that old, familiar saying.
I blinked the tears out of my eyes as I saw the small pile of bricks that marked the ‘driveway’ to the cabin.
I could cry later.
I had to get to the cabin.
I had to get my things inside.
Do some cleaning.
Make sure the wood-burning stove was operational.
Say a silent prayer that the water catchment and filtering system would be sufficient and not leave me writhing in pain and dying from some unknown illness.
It was a short five-minute drive before the cabin finally came into view.
The story was that my grandfather and uncle had built it with their own hands over a summer, and I could never tell if there was actually any truth to that story or not. But it definitely looked like a place that three unskilled builders could have knocked together.
The wood had softened to a gray color over the years on the simple rectangular structure with too few windows and a sharp saltbox-style roof in the back, so the large amounts of snowfall in the winter would simply slide right off.
“Home sweet home,” I said as I cut the engine.
It took actual effort to force myself out of the car, to grab my bags, then make my way to the front door.
There was no need to fumble for a keychain or look for some rock with a key hidden underneath. The cabin was always left unlocked. Apparently, it was some unspoken rule. In case someone found themselves trapped in the woods, and needed an escape from the elements.
I always thought that was kind of sweet.
Now, though, it felt like I was a single woman without protection alone in the woods with no lock on the door.
I pushed those thoughts away, reminding myself that I’d been careful to make sure no one could track me here, that I was smack-dab in the middle of thirty acres of property. With nothing but more preserved land on each side.
No one would happen upon me.
I was as safe as I could possibly expect to be.
The inside of the cabin felt stuffy and smelled dusty and stale. I propped open the door with a boot rack inside the door, letting some fresh air into the space that so desperately needed it.
It was a space that was painfully obvious had only been inhabited by men. There was nothing cozy about it, save for maybe the warm honey-toned wooden interior walls.
The small wood-burning stove was situated directly in the center of the space on a platform made of red bricks, with a brick wall behind it as well.
Directly across from there was a twin bed that I knew had a trundle tucked underneath. The mattress was secured in a water/mite/bug proof plastic style liner, and stripped of all the bedding.
I’d forgotten about that when I’d been buying supplies. But the single flat sheet I had would have to serve as my bedding.
A part of me that was accustomed to my bed at home—a luxurious queen I had all to myself that was covered in tons of blankets and pillows—wanted to turn right around and go back to the store.
But money was going to be a really precious resource right now. What I had left I needed to save for food.
Sure, I had a supply of seed packets in one of my bags, telling myself that this city girl could learn how to grow her own food without experience or, really, any know-how at all, but I knew I was going to need to find a town to stock up on canned goods, pasta, and rice.
But what happened when the money ran out?
Nope.
Not going there.
This was temporary.
I could survive a few months in the woods with the bare essentials.
Alive was what mattered.
“Okay,” I said, sucking in a deep breath that was now tinged with the scent of moldering leaves and dirt, thanks to the breeze blowing in through the door.
Wood.
I needed to get some dry wood for the fire.
There should be a decent supply in a little lean-to cabinet attached to the house. I would need more, though, before it was warm enough to stop using the stove. I guess I would be sharpening my hatchet skills. Maybe by the time I got back to some semblance of my life, I would have some Crossfit-type arms.
To the side of the stove and bed was a little round table with three chairs, a deck of cards in a case still sitting there, waiting for my father and his brother.
Neither of whom would ever come here again.
My breath caught on a sob that I forced down as I walked past the table, checking out the little kitchen. And by “kitchen,” I meant the sink that had a bucket underneath that it drained into, and a connection to the water catchment outside, and a small counter space for food prep that would need to be cooked on the charcoal grill out back or in a pot on top of the wood-burning stove.