They stomped the snow off their boots on the front porch and went in to check on Violet. The cardboard boxes he’d set on the kitchen island and asked her to load with food were full. He’d shown her how to use the shotgun before they’d left for the garage, believing it was the best option for her even if the kickback was strong. She didn’t need to aim that much if she was threatened; she just needed the guts to pull the trigger. Her face had paled as he explained how it worked, but she’d paid attention, listening closely and nodding at the right moments. The shotgun was still by the door where he’d placed it when he and Gianna had left.

Violet was nowhere in sight.

“Violet?” Gianna called, looking up at the loft.

Silence.

Chris’s heart rate increased.

The teen stepped out of the tiny bathroom at the back of the cabin, wiping her eyes, and he took a deep breath.

Gianna hurried over to her daughter and took her hand. “What’s wrong?”

Violet slowly shook her head, staring at the floor. “I don’t feel good. I thought I was going to throw up.”

Gianna slipped her arm around the girl’s shoulders and hugged. “It’s anxiety. You know it gets to you. This has been stressful and now we’re about to make it worse.”

Violet brushed her eyes and took a quick glance at Chris, lowering her voice. “This feels different. I think I ate something. Maybe the bacon . . .” Chris heard her and did a mental check of his stomach. He’d eaten nearly half the bacon and felt fine.

“I really think it’s your nerves,” said Gianna with sympathy. “There’s been a lot to take in this morning.”

“My legs are shaky.”

Gianna guided her to the couch and the two women sat. Chris grabbed the garbage can and set it next to the teen. She gave him an embarrassed look.

Should we be leaving if she’s sick? Is Gianna right and it’s just nerves?

He glanced back at the shotgun and wondered if his little lesson had been more than she was ready for.

We need to leave.

The thought hung above his head. He’d been arguing to stay at the cabin for twenty-four hours, feeling it was their best decision, but now he felt the opposite. And the feeling was growing stronger with every passing moment. It’d felt wrong outside; he didn’t know how to describe it, but there was a tension in the woods similar to what he’d felt when he first saw the burned cabin.

Everything is wrong.

He wasn’t a slave to his instincts, but he listened to them very closely. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Yes,” said Gianna simply, keeping her gaze on her daughter. Her expression ordering her daughter to agree with her.

“I don’t know if I can walk . . . if we have to walk,” Violet said slowly.

“We shouldn’t have to do much walking,” Chris said. He told her of her mother’s idea about the sleds and relief flowed through the teen’s eyes. “Let’s finish packing.”

He directed them to carry the food and the heavy coats he kept at the cabin. He fought the urge to pack every blanket and all his firewood into the truck. Eight miles. Nothing could happen where we’d need all that within eight miles. I know where we are and where we’re going.

He had accurate maps of the terrain in his truck, and he knew that once they made it close to the highway, they’d have cell phone reception.

I can do this.

After a careful scan of the area, he followed them out of the cabin and locked the door behind him. It felt like a useless gesture. If anyone wanted to break into the cabin, they could.

They threw their supplies into the back. He snapped his fingers at Oro and pointed at the open door of the cab. The dog leaped in and sat in his usual place on the passenger side. “In the back.” The dog followed his gesture and scrambled over the center console to the rear bench seat of the extended cab. Chris brushed the snow off the passenger seat. Gianna gave her daughter a hug, and Violet got into the vacated seat.

Gianna had goggles around her neck and the helmet in her hand. Her brown eyes were confident and he wished he felt the same. “I’ll follow you,” she stated. “Good luck.” She stepped through the snow to Frisco’s snowmobile.

Chris watched her go. She looked like a child wearing an adult’s helmet as she climbed on the machine. He settled into the driver’s seat of the truck and started the engine.

Violet stared at the two long stick shifts on the floor of the cab and struggled to buckle the limp seat belt. “How old is this truck?”

“Old,” stated Chris. “Close to twenty-five years. They don’t build them like this anymore.”

The look on Violet’s face said she didn’t find his words reassuring.

We have to get out of here.

He looked out across the faded red hood, hearing an echo of words in his mind, spoken by a young boy decades ago. Determination flowed through him.

This time they’d all survive.

Violet wanted to cry.

Her stomach wouldn’t calm down and twice she’d nearly lost the eggs she’d eaten for breakfast. Each time she thought about food, it made her stomach worse, and now the stress level in the cab of the truck was more intense than it’d been in the house. She held her breath and clutched the handle on the cab’s door. Chris’s jaw was clamped shut and his arms jerked with each turn of the wheel as the truck bounced and heaved its way through the drifts. The trip was slow. Twice Violet had looked back, surprised to see how short a distance they’d moved. At least they were still going forward and the heater in the truck blasted hot air in her face.