Rays of moonlight shone through the canopy onto violent flurries of snow, laying a fresh canvas on the forest floor below. She woke in a panic, which had been happening to her increasingly often. Nervously, she scanned her surroundings; leaning over the edge of the loft to search the lower floor, then turned to look outside. Snow was piling up against the window sill, glowing softly in the moonlight. A silhouette of an owl, perched on a nearby tree, swooped down and disappeared into the dark speckled quilt of the winter storm. The faint crackling of the fire came from below, and the wind brushed through the trees, humming over the silence of a snow covered forest. She wondered what had woken her. Her racing heart beat suggested it may have been a bad dream, but she couldn’t know for sure. It was 3:14 AM, another thing she didn’t know, due to the fact that she no longer owned anything that told time. This was by choice, of course. Her reasoning? It could have been our body’s natural ability to regulate our sleep schedule, or maybe that being able to quantify time passing created a sense of urgency in her, even when there was nothing to do. So she had decided she would have no watch, no alarm clock, no cellphone, no computer; not even a sundial. Although she had considered the latter, but mostly for novelty. The wind howled, followed by the creaking of an aching tree coming from outside her window. Her muscles tightened as she imagined the tree crashing through her roof and pinning her in bed, but nothing happened. The wind retreated, and the forest returned to silence.

She woke the next morning, as she did every morning for the past few years, to the blissful chirps of the Rosy Finches. Their songs began just before sunrise, to welcome the new day. Each morning they darted around the forest, diving between the trees, and chasing each other for hours. There were a few coals left in the wood burning stove, glowing a dim orange and slowly fading. A kettle sat on top, with just enough water left for a cup of tea and her morning oats. She tossed in the last of the logs and headed to the kitchen. The floor creaked under her bare feet as they ran along the ripples of the hand hewn boards. Her favorite mug was a pale blue, with her name “Sarah” on the side. Although the “S” was facing the wrong way. She was 8 when she made it, with the help of her mother, guiding her hands across the clay as the wheel spun it around. That mug, and her Dad’s old pocket knife he’d gifted her, were all she had left from her previous life. She cherished that mug. The knife on the other hand, not so much. The blade had rusted through, and the wooden handle warped around the rivets. Presents were few and far between when Sarah was a child. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last present she got from her parents. They were usually more focused on saying they loved you, rather than showing it. As for her dad, he would mostly just bombard you with advice on how to live life, or tell you all the ways people would “screw you over” if you weren’t careful.

Two scoops of oats, a pinch of salt, and a few drops of honey. Every morning was the same, but she never tired of it. The consistency was something she found great comfort in. One less thing to worry about in a world always demanding your attention. The whistle of the kettle pierced through the cabin. She poured the boiling water over the oats, filled her mug, and sat on the floor in front of the stove. To watch the fire burn was to stare into another world. The glowing orange ripples pulsed back and forth across the coals. The flames danced above the burning logs, trading partners as if performing a contra dance. She shivered as she watched her breath disperse in front of her. She moved closer to the fire, hunched over and stuck her hands out into the warmth radiating from the stove. The morning was her favorite part of the day. She loved everything about it: the sounds of animals playing in the forest, the way the steam swirled gracefully from the kettles spout, and the wind that danced between the trees. Gentle reminders of the living and ever present world that surrounded her. There was always a lot of work to do when living in the woods, but she didn’t consider it work, at least not anymore. Shoveling snow, collecting firewood, foraging for berries, and hunting for food. It had all become second nature, and much less daunting than it had seemed at the start. There was an indescribable contentment that came from doing what most would consider busy work. For Sarah they were the things she looked forward to in her day, and to a large extent, what brought her meaning in life. This of course, had the added benefit of leaving nothing left to get distracted by. On some days though, she questioned if she really believed that. Days where it seemed the work would never end. When all she wanted was one day, just one, where there wasn’t something she had to do. She would get trapped in her thoughts, following them down through the hopelessness, regret, and a romanticized recollection of her life before. If she was lucky, the thought spiral would eventually stop, and she would remember why she left the city. She would recall the droning sounds of the concrete jungle that had drowned out her thoughts; the buzzing of the refrigerator, the echoing of dumpsters banging and scraping through the alley behind her apartment, and cars like a thousand waves, crashing endlessly against the uninspired soundscape. Then there were those paper thin walls that shook with her neighbors every move, so even with her eyes closed, she couldn’t escape the constant reminders that this space wasn’t quite her own. That her time was not completely in her control.

The storm brought with it a few feet of snow, which lay delicately atop the frozen sheet that spread for miles in every direction. Some of the snow would melt throughout the day, but if it wasn’t shoveled by nightfall, what was left would freeze into a dense layer of ice. Even if there wasn’t another storm all winter, it wouldn’t fully melt until Spring came around, which was still a month away. She finished her oats, drank the last sip of tea, and threw on her snow gear before heading out. The weight of the snow stacked against the front door made it impossible to open more than an inch. She gave it another shove, then let out a frustrated sigh.

The first winter she spent at the cabin brought record snowfall. A heavy blizzard dropped four feet of snow in just a few hours. Having not grown up around snow, she naively waited until the storm passed and the skies cleared. When the door wouldn’t open she tried throwing herself against it, but that only succeeded in jamming it against the snow that was stacked tall on the other side. It wasn’t until the next day, when the fresh snow had frozen to join the icy expanse, that she thought to climb out of the window so she could clear the way from outside. But with no luck clearing what was now frozen solid, she was forced to crawl out her window the rest of that winter. The first thing she did once the ice melted later that year was build a small porch—with some help from the Wilson’s—just outside of her sleeping loft, and to the right of it, a ladder to get down. Subsequent storms required minor repairs, and occasionally inspired improvements, like the addition of an aluminum sheet as a makeshift awning. It was bolted directly into the shingle siding, to help prevent snow from piling up on the porch. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked.

She climbed into the loft, boots in hand, and stepped onto the porch. The brisk morning air bit into her skin. No matter how acclimated one gets to the frigid mountain air, that first step outside never gets much easier. She propelled herself down the ladder, moving as quick as she could in an attempt to warm up. The birds were starting to quiet down, and the wind had mostly settled, sending the forest into a sort of mid-morning slumber.

It took her two hours to shovel: first around the side of the house to the front door, then to the shed behind the cabin. When she finished, she grabbed a few logs from the shed that had been drying since last winter and tossed them inside next to the stove. With no electricity, wood was her only source of heat. And unless you had a starter log or a whole lot of lighter fluid, those logs had better be dry. That was another thing she learned soon after moving; this kind of living takes planning. The kind of planning that’s unnecessary in a city with overstocked grocery stores, and refrigerators big enough to last a bear through hibernation. Unless you preferred spending all your time going back and forth to town, which was just over an hour away on skis, you had to learn to provide for yourself and anticipate what you were going to need in the next week, or month, or year. Plus, Sarah wasn’t a big fan of the town, or the people—except for Mort and Holly of course. They had taught her most of what she knew about life in the mountains, and gave her a hand more times than she could count. Helping with the porch, clearing a fallen tree, or plowing the dirt road to her place that the town wouldn’t bother with. She threw in a log and crouched in front of the fire to thaw her hands. After a big storm, the weight of the snow could be enough to bring down even the largest of branches, or if you were lucky, entire trees. So, after a good snowfall she went searching around the forest for what would become the next year’s firewood. Slipping into her skis, with a sack over her shoulder and saw in hand, she headed out into the snow covered landscape. Life felt simple in these moments, like she had everything she really needed. She wasn’t worried about what others were doing, or reminded of their constant presence. The forest was her company now.

She was in the midst of sawing through a fallen branch of an old Douglas fir when she heard it again. Her head whipped around to see where it came from. The sound was unmistakable; the groaning of a tree struggling to stand. The silence that followed was saturated with suspense. Interrupted a moment later by the same creaking, slowly getting louder and louder until SNAP. Her ears perked up again, waiting for it to hit the ground. But instead what followed was a series of shatters, then what she could only describe as the sound of a wooden bridge giving way. SNAP. THUD. They rumbled through the forest like gunshots. She dropped everything and bolted back towards the cabin. Her mind was racing, getting faster with every step, as she prepared for the worst. But then, when the worst felt like too much to bear, her mind filled with thoughts of denial. “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” A thought experiment she found a bit on the nose at the moment, but the question seems to suggest something else entirely. That the observer (or lack thereof) has an influence on the event, which is all Sarah could think about. The shock put her in an almost dream-like state, giving her a kind of abstract sense of control. Maybe whatever happened hasn’t ACTUALLY happened yet. Maybe. Maybe, if I turn back now, I can stop it from happening. That’s clearly ridiculous, she thought. But she held on with a sliver of hope, as you do when you feel a profound loss of control. The thoughts escaped her abruptly as the fallen tree came into view. The tree hadn’t crushed her house, or broken through a wall like she feared, but she still couldn’t tell what exactly had happened. Time lingered in that brief moment, as it tends to do when the mind is screaming that something isn’t right, but it’s not yet clear if it’s paranoia or not. The world went silent, and time slowed down. It was the Black Oak tree that had stood outside her window, now laying on the ground parallel to her cabin. As she approached, she noticed a few broken shingles sticking out of the snow. Her eyes followed them up to the edge of the roof from where they had fallen, to find a massive branch sticking straight out of the snow covered roof, like an arm out of a giant snowman. The end was splintered, and from it hung a sheet of bark that looked to be peeled clean off the trunk. She was nothing more than an observer, with little control over the world, now frozen with disbelief. She tried her best to collect herself, slipped out of her skis, and ran inside. The mid-morning sun shot beams of light through the new hole in her ceiling, illuminating the wooden floor in a patchwork of lights and shadows. The pattern flickered as the wind rustled the leaves of the branch, which hung like a chandelier in the entryway of a castle. A drop of melted snow ran along a crack that had opened in the ceiling and dropped onto her forehead. She quickly grabbed some towels from the closet and threw them across the floor, then dragged a chair in from the other room, and climbed up onto it. The lowest hanging branch was no thicker than a pencil, but it was the only one within reach. With all her strength, she pushed it back up through the hole, trying to keep the weight balanced on the fragile limb in her hand. The branch wobbled under its own weight, and got heavier the further she pushed, as the other limbs lifted off the roof that had previously been supporting them. It snapped suddenly in her grip, sending the whole branch crashing back down onto the roof. Shingles crumbled around the growing hole, bringing chunks of snow and ice down with it. The crack in the ceiling traveled a few more inches. Ahhh! Shit! This was going to be one of those days, where it was all just a little too much to handle. Out of all the trees in the forest, why this one?! I guess everyone did tell me I couldn’t handle it, but I didn’t believe them. “Sarah, You don’t really want that.” They’d say. “You won’t survive a week.” “Just give yourself some time to think about it rationally.” But I needed to get out, so I did, and now look where that got me. Her father’s voice rang in her head, reciting all the reasons she shouldn’t have done what she wanted to. When she was a child, she would have defiantly proclaimed “I don’t need you! One day I’ll live in the mountains by myself!” But instead, she struggled to fight against the thoughts that flooded her mind. He always tried to play devil’s advocate. But really he was just hiding what he actually felt. It was like he was trying to be some encyclopedia for the human condition. As if he knew all the objective truths about the human condition and that somehow they were going to make me magically feel better. I guess he was at least trying to do what was best for me then. But when it came to choosing sides in the divorce, his well intentioned advice turned into criticism and anger. I wasn’t having it, which just made him more self righteous. Anytime we disagreed he would come at me with some made up philosophical rule which just happened to fully justify his actions and frame mine as completely crazy. But he couldn’t be right. Right? I mean look at him, he couldn’t even keep a marriage alive. It’s one of the many struggles of adulthood to realize your parents are merely human. That they are just as flawed as you, and they probably aren’t totally worthy of the blind trust you had in them as a child. This realization was made harder for Sarah by the turmoil of her parents divorce. She held desperately onto the belief that her parents were not fundamentally flawed. “Mom will change her mind.” “It’s probably my fault that Dad is angry.” She couldn’t escape those thoughts even knowing that, like her, he was saying things he didn’t mean. But even still, her father’s words lodged themselves somewhere deep in her subconscious. Being washed up from the depths of her mind with every swell of self doubt, further eroding her jagged shores with each breaking wave. Her self pity turned into frustration, then anger. She ran outside to the back of the cabin, ripped the ladder off the wall, and threw it up against the roof over the fallen tree. Carefully digging her hands in through the snow she climbed onto the roof. It creaked as she hoisted up her feet, sending chunks of snow and ice tumbling off the edge. Shuffling across the roof on her hands and knees, she made it to the branch, and gently used it to pull herself up. If she had looked around, she would have noticed how beautiful the forest was from up here. There was a squirrel jumping between the branches of a nearby Fir, being chased by a Northern Goshawk zipping around the outer limbs, waiting for it to get close enough to the edge to snatch for a mid-morning snack. The sun shined through the high canopy of the Giant Sequoias, painting the same beautiful patchwork of light and shadows on the vast snowy canvas. She pulled up on the branch, but struggled to maintain secure footing. It was nearly out of the roof, with just a few smaller branches still stuck inside. She adjusted her feet and gave it another big yank. The leaves rustled, and a few branches snapped and fell back into the room below. She pulled harder, and all at once it released. With the weight of the branch in her arms she stumbled, trying to regain her balance. The branch fell from her grasp and crashed down onto the roof, throwing up the snow around it. She lost her balance, and waved her arms frantically as she slid, trying to grab the branch for support. Her feet flew out from under her, sending her falling forward as she continued sliding off the roof. She clawed at the snow, trying to slow herself down. Her legs slid off, swung to hit the side of the house, then finally her hands caught the gutter. For a moment she hung, starting to process what had happened, and gasped a desperate breath. A sheet of snow slid off the roof, landing directly on her face, and sending chunks of snow into her jacket. Violent shivers traveled down her body and through her arms. She struggled to hold on as her fingers grew numb and sore. The gutter escaped her grip and she fell straight on her back. Her lungs were stiff and heavy as she lay there motionless, the snow melting against her skin. She wished this would all be over. After what seemed like far too long for someone to not breathe, her lungs expanded with as much air as they could possibly take in, and her eyes flew open. After a few deep breaths, she slowly lifted herself and stumbled back inside. Her entire body ached and her mind retreated. She stripped out of her cold wet clothes, hung them to dry, and laid on the floor in front of the stove. She did not want to move. As the events of the morning slowly replayed in her head, she realized she didn’t know how to fix a roof—even if she could get the branch off. With a deep sigh, and all the strength she could summon, she gradually lifted herself off the floor and hobbled to her closet. With her snow gear soaked through, she resorted to the warmest clothes she could find, and grabbed her extra pair of gaiters and skis before heading out again. Hopefully Mort will know what to do.

An hour later she spotted the edge of town, now with a pounding headache, presumably from the trauma of the morning. It was a small town by the name of Midian, population 106. There was one bank, a post office, and an old Irish pub named Patters. There really wasn’t much else other than the train station, which was the only reliable year round transportation in and out of town. Her dad used to call this place “a simple-minded town of old hicks and hippies.” She dangled her feet over the wall of snow that marked the end of Main Street, where the towns plows ended their route. Why it had that name was always puzzling to her, since all the major businesses sat on the highway. Main Street was little more than a strip of cement ending in a series of dirt roads that connected the more remote properties in the area—like Sarah’s. She took off her skis and jumped down onto the lame excuse for a road. As she got to the highway, she saw Wilson Supplies through the clearing, framed by two Ponderosa Pines. Sarah found it charming, like an old western general store she seen in movies. It was a locally owned convenience store, where most of the residents also bought their groceries. Mort and Holly Wilson had been running that place ever since she was a child, back when her family would visit on her dads work trips up here. He was a regional manager for the bank they had in town. When he could, he’d bring the family along, and rent a cabin for a few nights. Summer days were spent at the beach, running around or playing tag in the warm sand, and during winter, snow angels and snowball fights. But every day before they started their fun, her dad would have to devote the morning to work. So when her mom wanted a little time to herself, she’d leave Sarah and her sister at Wilson’s until he was off. Sarah always loved running around the store, screaming like she was trying to escape some invisible monster. Charlotte would usually just wander around, reading the labels to herself and putting back the snack bags that had been knocked off their hooks. The best part was when Holly would give them candy without mom knowing, saying it was because they were “such wonderful, intelligent young girls.” Mort was from North Carolina, and spent most of his early life in the Navy. After he left the army, he worked as a contractor for many years before retiring in Midian with Holly. He taught Sarah most of what she knew about living in the mountains, and even gave her a hand when she was building her porch after that first winter. She crossed the vacant highway and walked in to see Holly behind the register. “Oh, well hello Darling! That was a doozy of a storm we got last night, wasn’t it? How are you holding up?” “Is Mort around?” Sarah asked, not fully registering Holly’s question. “No, he’s out with the boys on that silly hunting trip they do every year. I’ll never understand what’s so grand about being out in the cold like that, and killing those poor animals… Is everything alright?” “Yeah, just a little hole in my roof I needed some help with. But I’ll be okay. Thanks Holly.” She started to turn away and walk out the door, feeling hopeless and a little annoyed. “Oh Sweetie, that’s horrible.” Holly paused for a second before starting again. “Well, you know, I wouldn’t be surprised if they make it back tonight! They were going to be gone ‘til tomorrow, but with all that snow we got I can’t imagine they’ll spend another day out there. They act all tough on the outside, but you know, inside they just can’t wait to get back to a warm meal and a cozy bed.” “Okay. Well, thanks again.” “Any time sweetheart. You stay warm now!” A sharp breeze poured in as she pushed the door open and stepped outside. Well this is just great. She thought to herself. I’m stuck either waiting here for Mort, who may or may not even be back today, or I just go back to my cabin, which is probably flooded and freezing by now with that gaping hole in the roof. She kept going back and forth until out of frustration decided she would just kill time until she figured out what to do. After wandering around for a few minutes, she remembered she had a P.O. box, but couldn’t remember when she had last checked it. The only reason she got it was so she’d have an address to put on government documents and such. It was one of the many aspects of modern life she found silly. All these things that you’re forced to have so that the government can contact you: an address that is accessible to the Postal Service, a phone number, a plastic card with your name and picture on it so you can prove you are who you say you are. It all seemed superfluous to her. A seemingly endless list of things to distract ourselves from what actually matters to us in life.

From the outside it looked like it was jam packed with mail, with corners of envelopes sticking out the bottom of the door. She opened it to see twenty or so letters. Most of them were junk, but one of them stood out. It was from her sister in Nevada. A desert tan envelope with flower covered vines printed in magenta along its edge. It had two names on the front, “Charlotte” and “Eric.” The last Sarah heard, Charlotte wasn’t dating anyone, which made the wedding invitation that much more surprising. An uncomfortable feeling grew in her stomach. A mix of excitement and overwhelming stress as a wave of nostalgia washed over her. She hadn’t traveled anywhere in years; her memories of the city seeming so distant now. Of course she was happy for her sister, but she couldn’t escape the fear of imagining herself being sucked back into the very life she was trying so desperately to avoid. The life that was so busy with people, and noise, and the hundreds of small to-dos that filled up entire days before realizing it. She dreaded the constant push to do more, be more, have more, and to never stop until those thoughts consumed our every waking moment. It felt like being addicted to some potent drug, except with nobody to help you because they were all addicted too. It took all the strength she had to leave those years ago, and to come to terms with all the parts that she would miss: people watching, live music in the local cafes, indoor rock climbing, and of course her friends and family. It’s okay, I have time. She took a deep breath and tried not to think about it all as she tore open the envelope. “August 13th, 2018.” Five months ago?! SHIT! The anxiety she felt around going home was quickly replaced by guilt, for missing one of the biggest moments in her sister’s life. She wished she could do something to go back in time, just to be there. She ran back to the store and asked Holly if she could use the phone. “Of course dear.” 1-3-1-2-4-9-5-5-4-6-5 The phone started ringing, and so did her thoughts. What would she say? What would her sister think? It had been years since they’d talked, and all that time made them feel like strangers in a way. She was afraid it would feel like they didn’t know each other as well now, or would somehow forget how to talk. The fear was clearly irrational, but she couldn’t shake it. “Hello? Charlotte speaking, who is this?” “Hey Siss…” “Sarah!! How have you been?!” “Yeah good. Uhm, I’m sorry I missed your wedding.” “Well it’s about time the invitation showed up! I told Eric that stupid postal service up there always-“ “Well actually it-“ “It’s okay!” Charlotte paused. “Has anyone ever told you that you worry too much? If it makes you feel any better, they lost Robbies invite too, and Katelyn’s, so–” “But I …” Sarah mumbled quietly with growing guilt. “-Yeah! Really, don’t worry about it.” The enthusiasm in her voice faded. “Did you hear about Dad?” “No, why? Is he okay?” “He’s not doing too great. He fell down the stairs last week and broke a few bones. He’s still in the hospital and apparently also having trouble breathing. His doctors said they were going to run some more tests or something.-“ “Oh, I uh-“ “-They wouldn’t tell me what they were testing for, but said they promised to call me as soon as they had the results.” “I-I’m sorry you have to deal with all of this.” “It’s alright, really, and Eric has been a big help. But you should call him. He could use a little cheering up right now.” Sarah fell silent. She became overwhelmed with guilt for not being there to help, and resentment towards Charlotte for not even giving her a second to process the news before telling her what to do. She also recalled all the conflict between her and her dad. Her mind spun, and she didn’t quite know how to respond. She couldn’t imagine calling him. “He wouldn’t want to talk to me.” “That was five years ago Sarah! Yeah, divorces sucks, and mom dying so soon after didn’t exactly make things better. I get it, I really do, but you have to forgive yourself eventually. And right now he just needs to know that he has people who love and support him.” “He knows I love him.” “Come on Sarah, you know what I mean.” Sarah had hoped she would give up, but she never did. Charlotte could be impossibly persistent when she thought she was right. Sometimes there really was no convincing her. “Here’s the number. Are you ready? 3-1-2-5-0-3-4-9-4-1.” Sarah repeated the numbers to herself, acting like she was writing it down. Then there was a moment of silence, followed by Charlotte’s muffled yell, “okay! Just give me one second!” “Shit sorry Siss, I got to go. Eric needs help in the garage or something. We really need to talk more often, and don’t forget to call Dad! Love you!” “Okay-“ CLICK. Charlotte hung up the phone before Sarah could respond, which was kind of relieving in a way. Sarah sat there quietly, staring at a chip in the laminate countertop, as she processed the news about her Dad. Her foot bounced up and down nervously. Her mind returned to memories of all the fights they had in the wake of her mother’s death. All the things they said that pushed them so far apart, now echoing in her head. And Charlotte, who had tried so hard to keep the peace between Sarah and their father, as she always did. Her dad often told this story about Charlotte, so proudly it almost seemed to Sarah like he was bragging. They were all having a normal family lunch, until someone got mad and started an argument. Who knows what it was originally about, but it quickly devolved into a totally different argument that everyone got dragged into. It was like a dysfunctional family therapy session, but everyone was trying to be the level headed therapist, and nobody was willing to be the patient. It was really a strange way to fight. After they all stormed off to their own corners of the house, leaving half eaten food on the table, Charlotte came out of her room and blasted “Don’t Worry be Happy” on the house speakers. Sarah thought it was a cheesy way to make everyone feel better, and plus she wasn’t done being mad. She was often frustrated with Charlotte trying to fix everything. With her face scrunched tight, she attempted to summon all the rage she could, to avoid cracking. She hated that feeling. Even if someone could make her laugh, it’s not like she would all of a sudden stop being mad. But eventually a smile cracked, and then a laugh. Although the laugh was mostly out of frustration that the silly song was actually working to change her mood. She took a few deep breaths, trading the smile for her most convincing deadpan look. The family eventually found themselves back in the kitchen, and without saying much at all, started clearing the dishes, and packing up the leftovers like nothing ever happened. It was so annoying how she just did that, with her endless optimism. Sometimes it felt like she lived in a different universe, where the sun was always shining, and everyone was frolicking through the flowers or some shit. I hated it. A middle aged man walked up the counter beside her, “hey do you work here?” Sarah snapped back into reality, and realized she had been tapping aggressively on the counter. “No.” He gave her a weird look and rang the bell on the counter. Holly came out from the back of the store, and glanced at Sarah with a look of concern. Sarah, who realized she was still holding the phone, quickly pressed it back against her ear, pretending like she was still talking to Charlotte. Holly, while helping the customer, looked over and asked quietly, “Sweetie, are you okay?” Sarah felt a lump form in her throat, but couldn’t tell if she was going to start crying, or whether she just felt bad for avoiding Holly’s support. She gave the most convincing nod she could, and turned away from the counter, phone still in hand. Her face tightened, her stomach curled into a knot, and she turned a bright red. If Holly had noticed, she would have surely tried to help, and Sarah couldn’t deal with that. It always made her feel like she was a burden on those around her. She put down the phone, and without looking back, said “thanks Holly” as she walked out the door. Her voice cracked as she spoke. She cleared her throat and walked faster until she was out of Holly’s line of sight.

As a child, one of Sarah’s favorite places was this boulder on Sunset Beach. The waves had carved a little cave into it, big enough to sit in. Whenever her and Charlotte would play hide and seek, that’s where she would hide. It only took a couple times before Charlotte knew to check there first, but Sarah didn’t really care. All she wanted to do was sit in that little cave and watch the wind push ripples across the lake, and listen to the sounds as they echoed off its walls like a giant Conch Shell. She made her way to the beach, keeping her head down to avoid eye contact with people she passed. The cave was a little tight for her full grown body. She hunched over and crawled in, then wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. She felt like she was going to cry, but her eyes apparently didn’t get the message. So she just sat there with her mind spinning, watching the gloomy clouds float over the partially frozen lake. A stark contrast to the summers she’d remembered back when her mother was alive. I can’t call him. He doesn’t want to hear from me. It will just remind him what a horrible daughter I was, and how I blamed him for Mom’s death. He’d probably go off on me about how I ran away from the world instead of dealing with my problems. He would rant about how I helped create those problems, and how I should have taken responsibility for them. But he’d be right, mostly, and I wouldn’t know what to say. Charlotte got married, he’s in the hospital, and I’m just here in the mountains, alone, missing all of it. Charlotte doesn’t get it. She thinks it’s easy to just pick up the phone and talk to him after all the shit that happened. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to have such a messed up relationship with a parent. But how could she? Sarah ruminated for a while until she had an idea. She would write him a letter. Because see, what she feared most was the uncertainty of the conversation. She couldn’t guarantee she was going to respond with the right words, and she couldn’t possibly know beforehand what he was going to say. But with a letter she could get the wording just right. He would have to read everything she had to say before responding, instead of interrupting because he misunderstood something she was trying to say. With the weight on her shoulders now a little lighter, she lifted herself up and walked back towards town. Shit! I don’t have the address. She stopped walking while she thought. Ok, I just need to quickly call Charolette back, get the address, write the letter, send it, and THEN I can deal with my stupid roof. She thought back to that morning; the snow melting through the ceiling to fill the room like a drowning lung, in a cabin sinking slowly back into the earth. The roof was arguably more urgent than contacting her dad, but she didn’t know how she was going to deal with the hole, or how long it would take. It was usually when someone expected something of her that Sarah got the most stressed. She couldn’t properly focus on anything else until it was done. This is part of what made it so hard for her to live in a city, with so many people around. She was paralyzed by the expectations others had of her. She couldn’t feel truly content until nobody needed her attention, and even then, the anticipation of someone potentially asking her for something could be incapacitating. The sign for Wilson Supplies hung from the dark green awning that spanned the width of the store, which was mostly covered in snow. She realized going back in there would mean getting interrogated by Holly, who must have known that something else was wrong. She stopped before she reached the storefront, and looked around trying to think of where else there was a phone she could possibly use. There weren’t many other businesses that opened the day after a big storm, unless they were essential. And Sarah didn’t know any of the other folks in town anyway. She crossed the highway, and walked down the road, away from Wilson Supplies, until she found a payphone at the other end of town. She reached into her pocket to look for change, and found a quarter. It would only be enough for a five minute call, but that should be all the time she needed. The quarter dropped in with a CLINK and she punched in Charlotte’s number. The phone connected to yelling in the background. “OUCH! Eric! Watch it with that broom would you!?” “Hello?” Sarah asked with hesitation, not sure if Charlotte was aware that she answered the phone. “I’m so sorry. Hi, who is this?” She said, seeming a little out of breath. “Me again.” “Oh hey! Sorry, Eric and I have been chasing this damn rat around the garage for over an hour now. Poor things probably traumatized… Anyways, did you talk to Dad? How did it go?” “I haven’t called him.” Sarah’s voice trailed off. She paused for a second, half expecting to be scolded, but Charlotte must have been waiting for an explanation or something, because she didn’t say anything. “Do you have the address for the hospital?” “Oh come on Sarah. Why not?!” She yelled, ignoring Sarah’s question. “I’m going to send him a letter instead.” “Are you even allowed to send mail to a patient?” Charlotte paused and took a deep breath. “Why don’t you want to call him?” “I already told you. Can you please just give me the address? Or the name of the hospital and I’ll figure it out myself.” Eric started yelling in the background, “HA! Got him! … or her!” Charlotte let out a SIGH of frustration. “Sarah-“ “Fine. Never mind.” Sarah slammed the phone back onto the hook. Her face was turning red again. She laid her arms on top of the pay phone and dropped her head into her hands. What the hell’s the difference anyway? It’s not like he’s going to die tomorrow. What if I called Charlotte two days from now? Would it have made a difference? NO. So what the hell is so wrong with sending a letter? With her fist clenched, she pounded the top of the pay phone repeatedly, as if she could beat an answer out of it. But she couldn’t, of course, because the truth was there wasn’t much she could do. She didn’t know the address or name of the hospital. All she had was a phone number. Feeling stuck like this was not something she particularly enjoyed. Not that anyone does. But for Sarah it was less about not having control, and more about the hopelessness of feeling her thoughts fold in on themselves. There could have very well been another solution to all this, but her mind just kept closing tighter and tighter until she couldn’t think of anything else. Either I call him, or don’t talk to him at all. Call him or don’t talk to him at all. Call or don’t call. But she knew not calling him wasn’t really an option. Even if the phone call went horribly, it wouldn’t compare to the guilt and regret she would feel for not reaching out to her father at a time like this. She reached into her pocket, only to be reminded that she was fresh out of quarters. The thought of going back to Holly’s was like a constant knocking in the back of her mind she was trying to ignore. But it did seem kind of ridiculous to try and do anything else. So she eventually gave in. Holly was sitting behind the counter, reading a book. Sarah slowed as she reached the door and thought about what she would say, and how she’d explain everything that was going on. The conversation played over and over in her head as she tried to anticipate Holly’s reaction. The door squeaked open, and the bell above the door rang as she walked in. Holly looked up and met her with a glowing smile. “Oh perfect timing! Mort and the boys got back not too long ago. They’re at the house cleaning up now.” “Oh ok. Uh sorry, could I use your phone again?” “Of course honey! Is everything ok? I saw you passing by earlier and you didn’t look too happy.” “Ya I’m fine, thanks. Just some family stuff I’m dealing with.” “Oh I know, that can be tough. But you’ll be alright.” “Ya I guess.” Sarah mumbled. “Mort’s sister Cheryl and I used to always be at each other’s throats. She wasn’t too fond of me for some reason; said it was something about the way I looked at her? I suppose I’ll never understand it. But that’s just kind of how family is, whether you choose ‘em or not. You haven’t a choice whether to deal with them. The best you can do is spend the rest of your life trying to treat them like any other person you’d meet.-“ Sarah didn’t see how any of this was relevant, but she knew correcting Holly would be opening a whole other can of worms. “-I used to say she was the reason I couldn’t be who I really had ought to be. I was wrong of course, but I say those kinds of feelin’s are okay to have every once in a while.” Sarah went to pick up the phone as politely as she could, trying not to come across as rude. 3-1-2-5-0-3-4-9- Dammit, what was after 9? 1-4? 4-1? Or was it 4-1-9-5? Oh, no, maybe there were two 4’s in a row? 4-4-9-1? Her mind spiraled for a second. Fuck it. 1-4. RING “Hi, you’ve reached Freedom Auto Loans. To speak with a representative -“ CLICK. 3-1-2-5-0-3-4-4-9-1 “H-Hello. Jack? Is that you?” A frail voice quivered. CLICK. Sarah let out a sigh. Her face turned red, and she could feel Holly looking at her. “Are you having trouble reaching them?” Holly waited a second for a response, then continued. “You know, maybe they need some space sweetie.” I know she’s trying to be helpful, but it’s coming off as really nosey. I wish she would just let it go. She doesn’t even know what she’s talking about. But Sarah couldn’t just keep ignoring Holly’s kindness. “Thanks.” Sarah tried to sound as genuine as possible, which she was, in a way. She was thankful for the support, but just didn’t know how to take it, let alone actually responding. Holly eventually looked back down at her book. Her eyes glazed over as she ran her fingers across the page, which made Sarah feel like she was alone in the world again. She looked over and got a glimpse of the front of the book. Catcher in the Rye. Isn’t that the book that we were supposed to read back in high school? About some kid in New York right? Why is she reading it? A few moments went by before Sarah asked “Do you ever miss your life in the city?” Surprised by the words as they came out of her mouth. Holly looked up from her book, keeping her fingers on the page. She looked sort of relieved, like Sarah was doing her a favor by talking. “Oh sure. You know what they say, ‘the grass is always greener.’ The trick is, you always gotta remember why you left. For Mort and I, we didn’t quite feel we belonged there anymore, with all the young folks running around, always making a ruckus ‘til the sun came up and all. Then neither of us had any family around either after his sister moved to Nebraska.” She looked out the window for a moment, at the tranquil forest sprouting from behind the snow banks that lined the desolate highway. Sarah began to recall the reasoning behind her decision to withdraw, but as she did, they appeared to her in a different light, lacking the absoluteness they once had. “Speaking of, how’s your father doing? I figure you must go down for holidays and such. Gosh it’s been years since he last visited. He retired what, 7 years ago?” “Ya, I haven’t been back since I moved here.” Sarah said sort of passively. “Oh how time flies. But he’s doin’ ok? Still living in Placerville is he?” “Yeah, but apparently he fell last week.” She mumbled with a subtle impatience. Her mind was still stuck on what Holly said about feeling a sense of belonging. The idea struck her as strange, to feel attached to a certain place. She thought about how that feeling of belonging must be about the people and experiences you had there, rather than it’s location on the globe. It was while considering this that she realized, for perhaps the first time with such clarity, that she didn’t feel very connected to anyone here, let alone having a positive experience with them. “Oh that’s horrible! Well I sure do hope he’s well. Growing old is tough enough as is. I couldn’t imagine what it’d be like if I didn’t have Mort around. Are you going to go visit him then?” Sarah hadn’t considered it, but wasn’t too keen on the idea. Nor did she enjoy having yet another person telling her what she should do. But Holly was one to never put pressure on you, even when she did have a strong opinion. So Sarah just thought silently. Imagining herself visiting felt like escaping to an alternate reality. One where she didn’t have to deal with all that seemed so insurmountable in the moment. She mulled over her struggles, and then to her past couple years. It felt as if her days had begun to blur together, like how a song on repeat turns to white noise on fatigued ears. What once filled her with excitement, faded into a droning soundtrack of life in isolation. She didn’t feel like she belonged here, a realization that hit her like silence when music stops; abruptly and with a force that snapped her out of a trance-like state. All that she had worried about suddenly, like overinflated balloons, burst at once in a rapid release of pressure, dispersing their sense of importance. She didn’t care about the damn roof, or what her sister thought of her, or that pain in the ass cabin. Through her struggle she acquired a sense of clarity, not unlike she’d felt those years ago. “I gotta go.” Sarah stood up and started towards the door. “Oh and thanks! For everything.” “O-okay!” Holly said, clearly confused. “Wait! What about your ro-“ The door swung shut, and the bell rang as it slammed against the frame. With a brisk walk she passed the still quiet shops and mostly empty streets until she came to the train station. She walked up the counter and knocked, somewhat impatiently. An older woman trudged slowly up to the counter, with baby blue glasses attached to a colorful beaded cord that hung around her neck. “Hello there. How can I help you?” Her voice quivered into the cold silence. “One ticket to Placerville please.” And as the woman turned around to grab a ticket, it seemed in no rush at all, Sarah imagined what it would be like to be back there; everything she would see, and how she might feel. The apartment building where she’d lived that had been torn down. The bedroom in her childhood home that was no longer hers. She realized how distant it all felt, like a memory from another life. But in a weird way she still felt like she was going home.