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They Met in the Woods

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Chương 1: Chapter 1

The battery is dead. Completely and utterly d-e-a-d, and I glare at my phone, shaking it a little as if thatwould help. But no. It stays black, not a single pixel lighting up.

Scowl deepening, I shove the blasted thing into my pocket so I won’t accidentallythrow it into the nearest tree. Even if it would be satisfying to see it shatter against a wide, rough tree trunk, it wouldn’t help my situation, and if a kind stranger happened to walk by with a power bank they agreed to lend me, it’d be unfortunate if the phone was lying smashed in a million pieces.

With a big, dramatic huff, I plop my ass down where I stood, the low blueberry bushes cushioning my behind. I cross my legs at the ankles, rest my elbows on my knees, and hang my head, letting out a long groooooaaaaaanthat’s bound to scare off any moose set on investigating who’s being so noisy in their territory.

I had a plan. Well thought out, meticulouslythought out. I filled my backpack with a vacuum flask of coffee, a tall stack of open-faced fried egg sandwiches—the superior food to eat on outdoorsy activities—my mushroom book, brought the huge basket I bought secondhand, and drove to a nearby forest I’d learned online is the prime mushroom-picking spot. And since I moved to the area only a couple months ago and don’t know my way around, I made sure my phone was fully charged and marked the spot where I parked in the map app before heading out so I would be able to find my way back.

What I didn’t take into consideration was that the new app I’d downloaded—excellent for hikers, according to the app store—apparently drains the battery faster than if it was a human taking their first drink of water after being lost in the desert for a week. It doesn’t help that my phone is getting up there in age, at least as far as cell phones go.

It also hasn’t helped that it’s been a gorgeous fall morning; rays of sun filtering through the vegetation and keeping me company, the air crisp and clear, and the mushrooms plentiful. All that took me further and further into the forest until I have no idea from where I came.

Only when my basket was overflowing with mushrooms—the Internet wasn’t lying when it suggested this spot for foraging—and my stomach was starting to demand attention since I finished my egg sandwiches hours ago, I decided to go back to the car, drive home, and make chanterelle toast for a late lunch.

Too bad I can’t wake up my freaking phone and find my way out of here.

What do I do now?

Until recently, I’ve been living in the city all my life and don’t have any experience finding my way out of a forest if I get lost. But yes. Lesson learned. One should not rely too heavily on technology. For my next mushroom-foraging session, I’ll have to find an old-school map, printed on actual paper, to have as a back-up. Are there even paper maps these days? And if there are, are there maps for forests?

So many questions, so few answers. And no phone to use for googling.

I heave a sigh and look around. There’s an almost-uprooted tree that would have fallen if it weren’t leaning heavily on its neighbor, and I knowI walked by it on my way to my current position because I’d noticed its predicament. So I’ll just head in that direction, pay extra close attention to my surroundings, and search for other clues I recognize. I’m not a damsel in distress; I’m a capable forty-year-old man who can find my way out of a benign forest. I can. Maybe if I tell myself enough times, it’ll come true.

“Finally a plan,” I say as I jump to my feet. “Everything is better with a plan.”

I pat my pockets to make sure I have everything. Phone, check. Mushroom book—I didn’t want to pick any dangerous ones and accidentally poison myself to death—check.

I pick up the basket and walk to the semi-fallen tree. Another tree, that I’d noticed earlier because its leaves are so intensely red, is familiar, and I walk toward it.

Great job, M?ns. You’ve got this.

A little while later, I’m forced to admit that “you’ve got this” was a bit optimistic, and that I, in fact, don’t. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere because I haven’t recognized anything for a while now. And I just arrived at a well-walked path forking off in three different directions. I’m completely sure I didn’t walk it earlier; I’d remember the distinct fork.

“Crap,” I yell to the sky, making some bird or other shoot up from a branch of a nearby tree. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” I call after it.

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Chương 2: Chapter 2

My shoulders slump. So much for my grand plan. Now what?

I glare at the three different paths slithering off in different directions into the forest to who-knows-where. Do I pick one and hope for the best? Or do I backtrack to the last familiar thing I remember seeing? Would that even help, since I apparently took a wrong turn from there?

My older brother Karl’s words, from one of the many times he tried to dissuade me from moving, pop into my mind. “What do you know about living in the countryside? You’ll be eaten by a bear or something. Don’t be an idiot, stick to what you know.”

Stick to what you know. That’s his life mantra. He’s the least adventurous person in the whole world, and wanting a change in my life, wanting a slower pace, is a grave offense in his book. If we’d lived a hundred years ago, he’d lock me into an asylum and throw away the key for being so crazy and unhinged as to move to the country

Nope. Nu-uh. I’m notgoing to allow him to be right. Aside from this little…mishap…I’m doing great here in a small community. I haven’t alienated a single one of my neighbors with my gay ways, as Karl had predicted.

Besides, the Internet says there are no bears in these woods. They better be right about that!

Another look along each of the paths reveals nothing new or familiar. Need I resort to eeny meeny miny moto decide which way to go?

Then I hear it. A faint “whack,” making me freeze in place. Where did that “whack” come from? I knit my eyebrows together. Was it even a “whack” or did I imagine it? But just as I’m about to move, I hear it again. It isa whacking sound somewhere in the distance.

I’m afraid to move a muscle and make a sound so I’ll drown it out. I close my eyes and focus on listening.

Whack whack whackcomes from my right-hand side. Is that…someone chopping wood?

My eyelids fly open and my breath whooshes out of me. Someone chopping woodmeans a person. A personmeans someone who can help!

More whacking seems to confirm my theory, and I scramble in the direction of the sound, stopping regularly to get my bearings and make sure I’m heading in the right direction. The sound grows louder, confirming I’m indeed on the correct path, and I hurry my steps.

It doesn’t take long for me to locate whoever is chopping wood—by now the sound is unmistakable—and soon I step into a clearing.

It’s a perfect circle with edges so sharp and distinct, it can’t be a natural clearing. Across from me, on the other side, sits an old-looking, tiny and charming cabin. It’s painted in the classical red-and-white color scheme, has a blue door, and looks well cared for, with lovely gingerbread trimming and a porch that looks perfect for a cup of morning coffee.

In front of the little house, a man is chopping wood. A shirtlessman, dressed only in a faded pair of jeans and clunky boots. The muscles in his arm bunch and flex as he wields the axe, his shoulders wide, his chest broad, tapering into a slim waist, narrow hips, and long, thick legs.

The axe travels in a perfect arch over his head—his back muscles dancing underneath his sweat-glistening skin—and hits the log with a loud whack. When he bends to pick up a new piece of wood to attack, my gaze is drawn to his ass.

Oh my.

It’s round and full and I bet it would fit perfectly in my hands as I sink to my knees behind him and bury my face between his—

I snap my mouth shut so I won’t catch a fly. No drooling over a man wielding his axe like he’s a goddamned pro, M?ns! He doesn’t looklike Leatherface, but one never knows. And yes, that was a chainsaw and not an axe, but I stand by my analogy.

Shaking my head at myself, I cross the clearing, making sure to be noisy so I won’t startle him and make him twirl around and throw the axe at me for trespassing, burying it in my forehead. “Excuse me,” I call when he’s about to pick up a new log.

The man turns around, his hand shadowing his eyes so he won’t be blinded by the low-hanging autumn sun.

Oh gawd, if I thought he was fine from behind, he’s even better from the front. Black curly hair covers his chest and abdomen, he’s got a black beard, a neat mohawk, dark eyebrows, and lines around his eyes. “Yes?” he says as I approach.

“I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I could use a break.” He lowers the axe until it’s hanging by his side. “What can I do for you?”

I walk a little closer so I won’t have to yell. “I was out picking mushrooms—” I hold out my basket as though I’m presenting Exhibit A to a jury hearing my case “—and I got lost in the forest.”

“You got lost?” The beginnings of a smirk play on his face, but to his credit, he doesn’t let it loose.

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