Page 46 of Sick(ness)

Her stomach twisted as the thought deepened. What if they weren’t just strangers out there? What if they were desperate? And what if Sawyer’s warning about women, about how unsafe things had become, wasn’t just talk?

She shuddered, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

The world used to have laws, neighbors, police — all the invisible things that made people think they were safe. Now there were just the two of them, and luck, and whatever courage they could scrape together.

She glanced toward the door where Sawyer had gone silent. Addy knew where he’d gone. He’d been talking about setting traps since yesterday, a mix of practicality and habit, the kind of thing a man like him didn’t need to think twice about.

She’d watched him from the porch as he moved through the clearing, methodical as always. He’d carried a small pack slung over one shoulder, coils of wire, and a handful of snares he’d made the night before using scraps of line from his emergency packs. It fascinated her how easily he turned ordinary junk into something useful.

He started near the edge of the treeline, where the ground sloped slightly toward the lake. There, he bent low, testing the soil with a gloved hand. “Animals move through here,” he’d explained yesterday in his quiet, even way. “Tracks in the mud. Rabbits. Maybe a fox.”

She nodded, though she hadn’t seen anything. He saw things she didn’t — patterns, habits, small signs that survival had taught him to read.

The traps were simple but effective: wire loops anchored to bent saplings, designed to tighten fast when triggered. He’d made a few heavier ones too, for anything larger, using branches weighted with rocks and a pressure trigger hidden under a dusting of leaves. When he was done, he’d marked the area with almost invisible cues: a broken twig here, a faint scratch on a tree trunk there, things only he would recognize if they needed to find them later.

“Clever,” Addy had said, watching him work.

“Efficient,” he replied. “We can’t keep living on cans forever. Fresh meat means protein. Means energy. Means we last longer.”

Now, as she sat by the fire, her mind kept going to him out there again, moving through the trees, checking each line and loop in silence. The image comforted her, his focus, his calm, but it also reminded her how fragile everything was.

Those same traps that might catch a rabbit could also warn them of something worse. Sawyer had shown her one he’d rigged higher off the ground, a makeshift perimeter alarm of sorts. Fishing line tied with a few small metal pieces that would clang together if tripped. “Crude,” he’d said, “but loud enough to wake us.”

It wasn’t meant just for animals.

Addy hugged her knees, listening for the faintest sound beyond the walls. Somewhere out there, the wind moved through the forest, bending branches, brushing against Sawyer’s warning lines.

She wondered if they’d ever get to a point where the traps were just for food again, not protection.

When the door finally opened and Sawyer stepped inside, brushing frost from his jacket, she felt her shoulders drop with relief.

“All quiet?” she asked.

“For now,” he said, stamping his boots. “One snare’s been tripped, but empty. Might’ve scared something off.”

He met her eyes, his tone even, but his look saying more.

Or someone.

Addy swallowed hard, nodding once. “Good. That’s… good.”

He set his rifle by the door, glancing toward the dark windows. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

But neither of them really believed it would.

* * *

By the time the last light faded from the sky, the forest had gone still again.

Sawyer had checked the traps twice before dusk, returning each time with nothing more than frost on his jacket and that thoughtful frown he wore when his instincts itched. Now, as darkness closed in around the cabin, he was back at the table, cleaning his rifle with slow, measured movements.

Addy sat near the fire, her knees drawn up, pretending to read through their supply list though her eyes hadn’t moved past the same line in ten minutes. Every sound outside—a branch cracking, the wind shifting—made her glance toward the windows.

The forest pressed close tonight.

“You should sleep soon,” Sawyer said quietly, without looking up.

“I’m fine,” she lied. “You’re the one who’s been out there all day.”