Page 16 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

But there’s a sharp, steady part of me that’s always survived the city, always found a way through chaos, and she chooses now to take the wheel.

Move.

Do something.

So I start walking.

I don’t know for how long—minutes feel like hours out here.

My fingers go numb inside my pockets.

My hair sticks to my face.

My coat is not made for this kind of wet cold no matter how much it cost.

I’m shivering, soaked, cursing, half-laughing at the absurdity of it, when I see a shape through the storm.

A figure.

Tall.

Broad.

Moving like he belongs out here.

My breath catches.

For one irrational second, I think I’ve hallucinated him—some mountain-man fantasy conjured by my desperate brain.

Then lightning flashes, and I see him clearly.

A man with a beard, thick and dark, wet with snow and rain.

A hood pulled up.

Shoulders wide beneath a heavy coat.

He looks carved out of the wilderness itself—gruff, rough, entirely unimpressed by weather or civilization.

He stops when he sees me.

His gaze lands on my ruined heels, my shaking hands, my ridiculous city coat.

And I swear, even from a distance, I can feel his judgment.

I don’t care.

I lift my hands like surrender and step forward anyway, voice coming out ragged and desperate.

“H-hello? Hello! Can you help?”

He stays quiet but I’m too relieved to care.

“Oh, thank God, I thought I was gonna die out here,” I say and stumble my way through the mud towards him.

Why isn’t he saying anything?

I’ve seen horror movies that start this way, but I refuse to believe the worst of humanity just because a few writers get carried away.