The foggy veil of sleep slowly lifts, and I can smell something—food. It smells delicious, like maybe beef stew or something. I am so warm and toasty—almost too warm—but I'm not willing to give up the comfort of my blanket just yet. The nightmares that plagued me are long gone, and I find myself somewhere in my memories' past. I imagine my mom will come in to check on me at any moment.

She must be making me soup. Am I sick?

I part my dry, chapped lips and call for her as my mind slowly wakes up.

"Mom?"

"Sam, you awake?"

Not my mom's voice.

It all comes back in a rush as if someone doused me with cold water. The blood on the walls, the bones, being chased by those wolves...

"Jackson." My voice is hoarse as I sit up, and Jackson is already standing at my side. He hands me my jar of water, and I sip it slowly as I come to my senses.

We're in my cabin, and I see the pot of stew on the wood burner. Steam is coming from the top, so he must've added water. The squash that nearly got us killed is roasting whole in the fire. My kitchen table is back inside the cabin, and my backpack sits on it. Jackson must've brought it back inside.

"What happened?" I ask after another swallow of water to soothe my parched throat.

"You passed out. I think it was shock, but...I don't know. You might be hurt from when you fell." He sounds worried and looks it, too.

I feel a sharp pain in my lower back and groan as I stretch.

"Let me see how bad it is," he murmurs. "Can you sit on the edge of the bed?"

I scoot up to the edge of the bed and angle my body so my back is to him.

"I have to–" He lifts the hem of my shirt a little, and I nod my consent.

He gently pulls it up, and as he does, I cover my bra with my arm even though he can't see from his position. 

He draws in a sharp breath when my back is exposed.

"Is it bad?"

"Yeah, it's bruising already, and some areas are swollen." He lightly touches my middle back, and I jump, surprised at the touch.

"Did that hurt there?" he asks, pulling back as fast as he touched me. I instantly miss the warmth of it. 

"No, it didn't hurt," I stammer as my cheeks flush. "It just surprised me."

Put it back! I scream silently.

He does. He very lightly traces my middle back with his fingertips, and the heat from his fingers sends a rush of warmth through my body.

"I just need to know how bad it's inflamed. Can I press down a little harder?"

"Yeah, just not too hard," I say, biting my lips.

He slowly traces his fingertips down my back, pressing a little deeper. It feels pretty sore in some areas, but not terribly so. I'm enjoying Jackson's hands on me so much it's worth the pain. It's been so long without human contact.

He reaches a spot in the lower center of the small of my back, and I cry out from the sharp pain of it.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I think this is where the impact was." He lightens the pressure and continues slowly to trail his hands over my lower back. "Yeah... it's your tailbone. You bruised it badly. You'll need to stay in bed while it heals."

"I can't!" He lets go of my shirt, and after it falls back over my body, I turn and face him. "I can't afford to lay around for more than a few days. You know that."

"You can't let your injury get any worse either," he says softly. "I'll help you."

"I'm not your problem, remember?" I remind him,

"Look, Sam, I know what I said...but what I'm not doing is watching another person die out here." He snaps at the end but then softens his tone and adds, "please, don't make me do that."

A haunted look crosses his face, and I feel an instant rush of sympathy for him. What did he see happen in that cabin? Who was the person to him? He's so young. Could it have been a parent? I reach for his hand, but he moves away before I can make contact.

"The squash is probably ready. I know you have stew but you need as much food as possible to heal." Jackson talks as he makes his way to the fireplace. He obviously doesn't want to bring up those old memories, and I don't push it. He uses a knife to stab into the squash and then pulls it from the fire. It smells incredible, and it better be, after everything!

He sets it down on the table, then grabs my now emptied water jar and fills it with stew. I slowly get up, my legs as sore and achy as ever.

"Stay there. I can bring it to you," Jackson says. "Sitting in a hard chair will hurt for a few days."

"I know, but it's okay. I'd rather sit at the table than spill food all over my bed." I make my way up slowly and it flipping hurts. Not just my back, but my legs feel like they are being ripped open. Jackson pulls a chair out for me, and as I sit carefully into it, I realize how right he is. Sitting causes a terrible pinching feeling between my tailbone and butt.

Jackson slides the jar, now brimming with steaming hot stew, over to me, and he has my little makeshift spoon in it.

"You did make a spoon," he comments with a tiny smirk on his lips as I lift it from the jar. 

"I made two. Get yourself a bowl, too, Jack."

"It's Jackson, and half a squash will be plenty for me. You need food to heal."

"You shortened my name. It's only fair," I say. "And I have plenty of stew left. If you don't get yourself a bowl, you'll force me to get up and get you one. And I don't want to stand and sit again."

"I—I'm saying your name wrong?" His cheeks redden slightly, which is kind of cute. Maybe he doesn't dislike me as much as he acts like he does.

"It's Samantha, but most people call me Sammy. You cut me off before I could tell you that."

"Oh, uh, sorry."

"Don't be. I decided I like Sam for me out here. It sounds strong, like I'm trying to be."

"You are strong," he says, sliding my half-squash over me. "Now eat, please."

"Not until you get yourself a bowl."

"Fine. One small bowl," he relents as he gets up to get himself one. I know he's as fatigued as I am, if not more. He had to carry me twice.

We eat quietly and quickly in the lantern-lit cabin room. Sadly, the squash is a little tasteless and bland and was not worth risking our lives for, but at least our bellies are full tonight.

Glancing out the window, I notice that it's growing dark. "You can't walk back now. It'll be dark before you reach the deep pines."

"I didn't plan to leave tonight," he says. "Not with you injured."

"You didn't have to do that, thanks," I confess. Truthfully, I don't want him to leave, but it has nothing to do with my back and everything to do with those wolves. Logically, I know they aren't suddenly all going to decide to swim over here and find us, but my irrational fear is there anyway, clinging to my conscience like a leech.

"It's nothing. I'll sleep in my boat outside with the tarp over it. Done it before," Jackson says.

"You are not sleeping outside!" I protest. "You can sleep in here."

"I don't want to get in your way."

"Get in my way of what? Putting on a dance recital? I'll be laying in bed."

One bed.Oh crap. Where would he sleep? Should I invite him to —

"Fine, I'll sleep on the floor," he mutters, answering my silent question. I feel bad for letting him sleep on the hard floor, though.

"I have a bunch of blankets. They'll help soften it." I offer feebly, and he simply shrugs.

"It's fine, Sam. I slept in my boat for months before finding that cabin in the east woods."

"Why your boat?" I ask. "Why didn't you stay in here?"

"I did for a few months, and then... I made the mistake of going back over there. I still had so much stuff I left behind—tools, tarps, and tons of food—and I was starving. The creek was frozen, and I knew I could easily walk across. I figured I could be quiet and quick, grab what I could, and run back." 

"What happened?"

"One of them saw me, and I just freaked out and ran. It came after me, chased me across." He trails off as his face pales, and I know the rest of that memory is harrowing, and I can only assume that's why his jacket is all ripped up.

"They can get over when it's frozen," I repeat unnecessarily, and his grim face confirms this.

That's why he said I'm not safe here come winter.

Shit. What do I do?

"That was the last time I tried crossing the creek. Over three years ago now," he says.

"So why were you over there today? What was that thing you grabbed?" I ask.

"Why do you want to know?"

"I'm just curious! What was so worth risking your life over?" I cringe slightly as the pain in my back sharpens, twisting in my seat to try and relieve the pressure.

"I don't want to get into it tonight." He stands up and heads towards me. "You're in pain let's get you back to bed."

"I wish I had some aspirin here." I groan as I stand up, which is as hard as sitting down. Jackson is there instantly, steading me and helping me return to bed.

"There might be some in that old first aid kit," he mentions as he crosses the room toward the shelf it's on. "I know it'll be expired, but it might still work."

"I can't remember if there were any in there," I say, and then as he clicks it open, I suddenly recall what is in there. 

Shit, he can't see that! "Wait!" I cry out. 

"What's this?"

Too late. I look up in horror to see Jackson unfolding the map I had with me when I arrived.

"A map?" His eyes meet mine, hardening instantly. "You lied."

Shit. I gulp.

"Not exactly. I can explain." 

"I knew you weren't a runway. I had a feeling, but I thought maybe I could trust you, and..." He trails off. "Obviously, I'm an idiot."

"You're not. You can, I swear!" I plead, but his face has gone stoney and unreadable just when he was starting to let me in. Damn it, why did I stick that map in there?

"Who are you, and why are you here?" Jackson asks, crossing his arms around himself as if to keep me out.

"I.. am a runaway. It's just a little more complicated than I made it sound."

"There is no point in lying now. You have a map of my land, and I want to know who gave it to you."

"Your land?" I ask as I arch an eyebrow. He had alluded to this before, and I assumed he was just saying it to say it. Does he own this land? He can't be more than eighteen or nineteen.

How?

"Answer me! Why are you really here? Is someone coming behind you?"

"What, no!" I say quickly, and a flicker of relief softens his hard gaze, a little, anyway. "My dad sent me here, okay?"

"Your dad? How would he know about this place? What's his last name?"

"It's Morgan, and he didn't know about it until he got himself in trouble."

"Trouble with who?"

"The Russo family," I confess, and Jackson stiffens. He knows the name, no doubt.

"The Russo's have no idea this place exists... if you led them here, I swear to —"

"I didn't—we didn't. My dad got ahead of their plans by sending me here. If they had been behind him, they'd have gotten me already. I'd be wishing for the death you keep warning me is going to happen out here." 

"That's what you meant about a fate worse than death," he mumbles.

I simply nod because I don't want or need to voice the kinds of things gangsters do to teenage girls.

"Who told your dad to send you here?"

"He said his name was Franky."

"Fucking Franky, I should've known .." Jackson rolls his eyes irritably. 

"You know him? How?"

"I'm more interested in how you know him," Jackson replies. His tone has softened, but his body is still tense and guarded.

 My only chance to salvage this with him, to regain some of his trust is honesty. I tell Jackson the whole story, starting with coming home to my panicked dad and packing my things and ending with how I trekked through these woods in the dark and found this cabin the next day.

"What the hell was Franky thinking? He sent some old gambling fool here. They easily could have followed him." 

"Don't call my dad that!"

"Oh, come on, he is a fool! And you should be pissed. He stole your life."

"I am mad at him," I say as my lip trembles. "But it doesn't do me any good when I know I might never see him again."

Jackson lets out a long sigh. "I assume the insurance thing was Franky's idea, too."

"He told my dad exactly what to do and he just did it." 

"That was the one smart thing he did in all this, I guess."

"You think he'll be able to get the money and pay them?" I feel an ounce of hope, but the look on Jackson's face crushes that.

"I'm sorry, Sam. No, that's not what I meant. He'll never get that money."

"What? But..."

"They won't pay without a body, no way. It's all going to look so suspicious, and Franky knew that...he knew if your dad tried to submit an insurance claim right away, the cops would be all over him about you being missing. The Russos won't want to fuck with him when he has that much heat on him. It bought your dad some time, but they'll know he's hiding you, and eventually, they'll want his blood for the money."

"They'll kill him?"

"Probably."

"No! Jackson no! He's all I have left. I can't let that happen to him. I have to do something!" I cry out, and my eyes well with tears.

"There's nothing you can do but hope the cops investigate your disappearance for a long time. He made his bed and lucked out that he knew Franky."

"He told me Franky was a good guy," I recall in a soft tone; maybe Franky will keep helping him; I can only hope; it's all I have, hope, and it's such a fleeting thing. 

Jackson laughs shortly, "Sam, he didn't do it for you or your dad. He did it to manipulate me."

"Manipulate you? How? I don't understand."

"It doesn't matter right now. Just get some sleep, okay?"

"But.."

"I'm going to get some air. I'll be right outside. Just yell if you need me."

"Wait, Jackson!"

As he leaves, the door clicks shut, and my back is too achy to get up and go after him.