Page 1 of Easy, Tiger

1

HALSEY

Six months ago, I possessed a reputable career and a sensible life. Now I have a duffel bag and a stack of emails I cannot bring myself to open, all while occupying a cabin in the middle of nowhere that retains the faint chill of someone else's woodsmoke.

Grabbing my duffel bag from the back of my truck, I dump it beside the cabin's front door with more force than necessary. The thud echoes across the small porch, a satisfying punctuation to eight hours of white-knuckling my steering wheel through mountain roads that seemed designed to test my resolve.

The cabin key slides into the lock surprisingly easily, the first thing that's gone right in months. Inside, dust motes dance through bright midday light streaming across pine floors that creak a welcome. The room transitions seamlessly from a cooking space and lounge into a functional office. A ladder leads to a loft bedroom tucked under the eaves. The cabin feels untouched, the air heavy with undisturbed isolation and the haze of a dying fire.

Hauling my art supplies to the kitchen table, I arrange sketchbooks, pencil cases, references, and my DSLR camera with the accuracy of someone desperate for control. The commission letter is folded safely in my pocket, its edges worn soft from handling, the Regional Wildlife Field Guide for Red Pine Valley. Decent pay and an anonymous client sweeten a remote assignment—the trifecta of career resurrection, assuming I can manage not to screw this up too.

My phone buzzes against the table. Another notification I won't check. The internet's memory spans eternity when it comes to public humiliation, but I've discovered airplane mode works like a digital amnesia pill.

The cabin walls close in, abruptly stifling. Needing air that doesn’t taste like failure, I shove the door open and stumble onto the porch, where the abrupt expanse of the world stops me cold.

During the long drive, the woods had been nothing but a frantic, green blur behind my own spinning thoughts, but here, in the serenity, the truth of the forest finally breaks through. Trees blaze scarlet against a cloudless blue sky, their leaves catching the high, mid-afternoon sun like scattered rubies. Golden birches shimmer in the breeze, casting coins of light across the forest floor. An oak spreads amber branches wide enough to shelter half the clearing, its trunk thick as a monument to persistence.

I've illustrated autumn scenes for years: my portfolio includes commissioned work for nature magazines, educational publishers, conservation groups, gardening journals, and private collectors. But standing here, inhaling the sharp autumn air, I realize I've been drawing memories instead of moments. This landscape claims its own authority, asking only that I witness it.

But the need to capture this moment sends me darting back inside; I grab my sketchbook off the kitchen table and return to the porch. With the 4B pencil already in hand, worn smooth by years of work, the familiar weight finally grounds me as I prop myself against the railing.

A chipmunk darts across the clearing, cheeks bulging with winter preparations. It halts near a fallen log, head tilted as if posing. Sketching quickly, I capture the alert curve of its spine, its tail forming a question mark against the leaves.

"At least you know what you're supposed to be doing."

The chipmunk flicks its tail and runs into the underbrush, leaving me alone with the unfolding afternoon and the first decent drawing I've made in months.

With a snap, I close the sketchbook. Sitting here wallowing in my own company will only lead me deeper into the spiral of self-doubt that's been my constant companion for months. The town is only a few miles down the mountain road, and my legs could use the stretch after hours cramped behind the wheel.

Tugging on a flannel jacket, I slip my small, leather-bound field notebook into my chest pocket—a habit for quick gesture sketches. I pack my larger drawing pad, pencils, a sharpener, and camera into my messenger bag along with a water bottle and lock the cabin behind me. The midday sun warms my shoulders, making the walk down the winding road easier than expected—Red Pine unfolds itself gradually through the trees, a collection of weathered buildings nestled in the valley like something from a postcard that's never been mass-produced.

The main street stretches perhaps three blocks, lined with storefronts that look like they've been here since the trees were saplings. A hand-painted sign reading "Red Pine Café" swings gently in the breeze, its cheerful yellow letters hard to resist.

Inside, the café radiates warmth through mismatched furniture and walls covered in local photography. A woman with silver hair and reading glasses perched on her nose peers over the frames from behind the counter, her face lighting up genuinely pleased.

"Well, you must be our new artist! Word travels fast in a town this size."

I stop halfway to the counter. "How did you⁠—"

"Honey, we've been expecting someone to rent the Whitmore cabin for months. Plus, you've got that look."

"What look?"

Gesturing at my messenger bag, she says, "Creative types like you often radiate a certain city polish that’s just starting to wear off at the edges, and those hands of yours are definitely an artist's hands."

My fingers, currently faintly stained with graphite, catch my eye when I turn my attention to my lap. "Guilty as charged."

"I'm Ellie Berry. This is my place, and you look like you could use something warm."

Before I can protest, she's already moving behind an espresso machine that appears older than I am. "Coffee's on the house for new residents. It's the town's policy."

"Is that actually a policy?"

"It is now."

The front door chimes, admitting two men who bring a gust of crisp autumn air with them. The first is a man whose shaved head gleams under the café's warm lighting and whose smile could power the town's electrical grid. Beside him stands a slightly older man in a sharp tweed blazer, clutching a leather folio and an air of practiced authority that feels surprisingly warm.

"Ellie, please tell me you've got more of those cinnamon rolls hiding back there," the larger man booms.