Page 55 of Collateral Damage
I check my watch. Five minutes. Maybe less, he said.
I count the seconds in my head, trying to stay calm.
One minute passes.
The wind picks up, rattling the window frame.
Two minutes.
A branch cracks somewhere outside, sharp and sudden. I jump, my hand tightening on the gun.
Just a branch. Just the storm.
Three minutes.
The silence stretches. No sound from outside. No generator firing up yet.
I stay at the window, watching the corner where he disappeared. Nothing moves except the falling snow.
The gray light coming through the windows makes it hard to tell what time it is. Morning, I know that. But it could be eight or noon or three in the afternoon for all the difference it makes. The storm has erased any sense of normal time.
Four minutes.
Still nothing.
My eyes start to play tricks on me. The shadows between the trees shift and resolve into shapes that aren't there. I blink hard, refocus.
The cabin feels smaller than it did before he left. The walls closer. The ceiling lower.
I check my watch again. Four and a half minutes.
He said five. Maybe less.
But what if something happened? What if he slipped on the ice? What if?—
Stop. Just stop.
I force myself to breathe slowly. Count the breaths instead of the seconds.
In. Out. In. Out.
Five minutes.
The generator should be running by now.
Six minutes.
The shed is barely visible through the snow. No movement. No sign of him.
My grip on the gun tightens.
Seven minutes.
Everything outside blurs together—white snow, gray sky, dark trees. No definition. No depth.
I could be looking at a wall two feet away or a forest a mile out. There's no way to tell.
Eight minutes.
