The axe froze mid-air. The sixteen-year-old boy stopped, listening to the silence of the winter woods. A groan.
It was faint, barely audible, but it was definitely human. Leaving his sled full of firewood on the trail, he pushed through the snow-covered brush toward the sound. Twenty yards later, his world turned upside down.
A man lay under an old pine tree. His hands were behind his back, his legs bound with thick rope, and a rag was stuffed into his mouth as a gag. His jacket was unzipped, revealing a white dress shirt, a silk tie, and an expensive tailored suit.
He looked completely out of place in the November wilderness. The boy’s heart hammered against his ribs; his knees felt weak. He stood there, unable to believe his eyes—this was the kind of thing you saw in movies, not in real life.
Especially not in their forgotten corner of the mountains, where the only visitors were locals gathering wood. The man’s lips were blue from the cold, and his entire body was racked with shivers. His brown eyes, wide with terror, fixed on the teenager with a desperate, silent plea for help.
An expensive watch glinted on his wrist, his leather dress shoes were soaked through, and blood seeped from a tear in his trousers. Who was this man? How did he get here? And more importantly, who had left him here to die in the freezing cold?
The alarm clock cut through the pitch-black room like a siren. Elena Miller fumbled for it on the nightstand and hit the button. The floorboards creaked under her feet as she stood up; the floor was ice-cold despite the wood stove running late into the evening. 5:30 AM.
Outside, there wasn’t a hint of dawn, just a dark November night and a few stars peeking through the clouds.
— Drew, wake up, honey! — Elena whispered, leaning over her son.
Drew opened his eyes instantly. There was no morning grogginess, only the immediate alertness of a sixteen-year-old who had long ago stepped up as the man of the house. He nodded, sat up, and rubbed his face. Elena walked over to the small bed by the stove where seven-year-old Cassie was tucked under two heavy quilts. She adjusted the blanket over her daughter’s shoulder and kissed her forehead softly.
The little girl didn’t stir, only hugged her stuffed rabbit tighter. In the kitchen, Elena flipped the switch; a dim bulb over the laminate table illuminated the room. Drew appeared a minute later in an old t-shirt and sweatpants, barefoot.
— Wake Cassie up at seven, — Elena said, pouring coffee from a thermos. — Make sure she eats. There’s some oatmeal in the fridge, just heat it up.
— Got it, — Drew nodded, yawning.
The woodpile was getting low. Elena sighed, looking at the nearly empty bin by the wall.
— We’re going to need more wood today.
— I’ll head out after school, — Drew said, rubbing his hands together. The house was chilly; the fire had died down overnight.
— Be careful, it gets dark early. Try to be back by four.
Elena finished her coffee and set the mug in the sink.
— Don’t forget the chores. Check the fence by the coop.
— Mom, I know, — Drew gave her a tired smile.
Elena paused at the door, already bundled in her old work parka and a scarf. She looked at her son: tall, lean, with dark circles under his eyes. He looked far too old for sixteen.
— Drew… — she started, but stopped herself.
— It’s fine, Mom. Go on, you’ll miss the bus.
Drew stepped forward and gave her a quick hug. Elena leaned into him for a second, then pulled away, sniffing back the cold air.
— Alright. I’ll see you tonight. Watch out for your sister, — she said and stepped out into the dark.
The door clicked shut. Drew heard the gate creak, then the sound of footsteps fading down the frozen driveway. His mother would walk over a mile to the main road, take a ninety-minute bus ride to the city, and then another shuttle to the manufacturing plant. Twelve hours on her feet on the assembly line. Then the whole trip back. Six days a week.
Drew walked to the wood stove, knelt down, and opened the door. A few embers were still glowing. He took some kindling from the box, laid it across the coals, added some crumpled newspaper, and blew gently. A small flame flickered to life. He added more kindling, then small logs, then larger ones. Soon, the fire was crackling steadily.
Warmth began to radiate from the cast iron. Drew put a pot on the stove and poured some milk. As he stirred the oatmeal, he thought about how his mother looked fifty, even though she was only thirty-nine. Gray streaks in her hair, deep lines around her eyes, hands calloused and cracked. She worked like a dog, and they still barely made ends meet.
The oatmeal bubbled, and Drew lowered the heat. He covered the pot and went to get dressed. At seven, he woke Cassie, gently rubbing her back.
— Cassie, time to get up. Breakfast is ready, — he said softly.
The girl opened her eyes, stretched, and smiled…
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