Page 31 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

I drive to the cabin rented as Blackridge’s temporary operations base. It sits ten minutes outside town, far enough from the road that the surrounding pines absorb most sound. Two of my employees occupy the larger cabin downhill. I chose the smaller one because I sleep better alone … usually.

Inside, I lock the door, check the windows, and place my keys, phone, and wallet on the kitchen counter. The routine takes less than a minute. I have performed some version of it in hotel rooms, rental houses, temporary quarters, and buildings where sleep was less important than remaining ready to move.

The shower heats slowly. By the time steam fills the bathroom, the stiffness in my shoulder has eased further. I remove my shirt and examine the joint in the mirror.

No swelling. No redness beyond what I would expect after massage. I raise my arm cautiously. It’s moving higher than this morning.

Loralee’s voice returns with unwanted clarity.

Your body has forgotten how to believe the danger is over.

She agreed not to interpret my reactions. Then she did it anyway.

She also apologized when she crossed the line. She identified what she had done, stopped, and gave control back to me.

Most people defend themselves before deciding whether they were wrong. Loralee appears to do the opposite. That makes being angry with her inconvenient.

I shower, review the incident reports, and answer emails until after midnight. When I finally lie down, I expect the familiar sequence of my shoulder against the mattress, pain beneath the blade, and making adjustments. Normally, it’s at least one more adjustment, then an hour of staring into darkness while my mind continues working.

Instead, I close my eyes.

When I open them again, pale morning light is visible around the curtains. I reach for the clock. Six twelve.

For several seconds, I assume the display is wrong. I check my phone. Three routine overnight reports wait for review, but there were no calls, perimeter breaches, or incidents requiring escalation.

I slept for nearly six uninterrupted hours.

My shoulder is sore, but the pain is dull rather than sharp. I rotate it carefully. The movement remains smoother than it was yesterday.

Loralee did that too.

I arrive at the festival later than planned and find my team fully operational. No one comments because I am still twenty minutes earlier than required. That does not prevent me from feeling as though I have neglected something.

The morning sweep reveals an unsecured trash enclosure, moisture near one electrical connection, and nothing that justifies the unease.

At seven forty-three, I reach Loralee’s booth.

Loralee stands on a folding stool fastening a strand of artificial autumn leaves across the front beam. Today she wears a dark green dress beneath a long brown cardigan. Boots rise to just below her knees, and her hair is gathered into a loose braid over one shoulder.

She looks down when my shadow crosses the booth.

“You came back.”

“I work here.”

“You also work in sixty-three other booths.”

“Sixty-two. One vendor withdrew before opening.”

She smiles. “Good morning, Rocco.”

“Good morning.”

Her gaze moves over my face, my shoulders, and the hand carrying coffee. The inspection is so obvious that I should object. Instead, I wait.

“You slept,” she says.

“That is generally what people do at night.”