Grim

LIGHT IT UP by Kimberly Derting

I drop my sleeping bag and sit down hard on the slime-covered boulder, refusing to take one more step. My legs ache, my back aches, even my shoulders ache from all the walking we’ve had to do.

“Forget it,” I tell Hansen as he flashes me a reproachful glare. I recognize the look—like he thinks I got us lost on purpose. As if it’s somehow my fault the GPS on my phone doesn’t work all the way out here in this godforsaken forest. “I’m taking a break. If you don’t want to wait, then go on without me. See if I give a rat’s ass.” I dig in my pocket for my crushed Marlboro pack, and then sigh as loud as I can to get my point across. I focus all my energy on extracting my very last cigarette in the whole wide world. It’s bad enough that my hands are shaking from caffeine withdrawals. I have no idea what I’m gonna do when the nicotine cravings start kicking my butt, too.

Like it’s made of glass, I settle the cigarette between my lips, and then cram my palm into my left eye. It hasn’t stopped twitching since we woke up this morning to find that our bitch of a stepmother had up and left us in the middle of the freaking woods.

And now it’s just the two of us out here. Me and my little brother.

I watch as Hansen loosens his pack, his expression softening as he lowers himself to the ground in front of me. I hate the way he looks at me, like I’m suddenly this fragile thing in need of coddling.

“Here,” he says, unzipping his bag and handing me the dirty T-shirt he’d worn just yesterday. When we’d been pretending to have a good time for our dad’s sake, acting like we didn’t notice how weary he was from the radiation treatments that were making him sicker by the day. When we silently wondered why our money-grubbing stepmother had dragged him out here to camp in the first place, when he should have been home, hooked to an IV and a catheter instead.

“Dammit.” I curse and rip the shirt from his hands, realizing why he’d given it to me. I wipe my eyes, no longer pretending the tears don’t sting as I clutch the cotton that still smells like campfire smoke and AXE body spray—the cologne Hansen practically showers in on a daily basis. “I wonder if he even realizes what she was up to. That she abandoned us out here. I wonder if he’s even noticed that we’re not even with them.”

Hansen just shrugs, and I want to punch him for always being so whatever when it comes to our dad, and the fact that the cancer is killing him. As if my little brother’s already given up on him. This isn’t a whatever kind of moment. This is a big deal...a really, really big deal.

We are lost in the middle of a thousand acres of tree-filled wasteland, abandoned in the middle of the night by our parents, the only two people in the world who even know we’re still out here. Check that, abandoned by a stepmother who’s been counting the days till our father will finally bite it, and then she’ll be set for life. She knows that once he’s gone, she can buy whatever she wants, travel anytime she wants and never, ever have to change another disgusting Depends again.

And without us to share that inheritance with, her gold-card limit just tripled.

For me, at least, losing my dad will probably be harder than losing our mom was.

At least when she died, she left Hansen and my dad and me together. We were still a family. What will Hansen and I be once Dad dies? Orphans. My throat tightens at the dismal feel of the word.

My fingers tremble as I light my cigarette, grateful for the first time for the shitty gold-plated lighter the step-bitch gave me for my last birthday, the one with my name—Greta—engraved on the side of it. Maybe she thought she was giving me the gift of early-onset emphysema.

Three drags, I tell myself. Only three and then I’ll stub it out and save the rest. I have to be smart. Ration it. Because that’s what people do when they’re lost in the wilderness—they ration their supplies.

But three’s harder than I thought it would be, and four is damn near impossible.

By my fifth drag, I finally find the will to rub the cherry into the dirt, careful not to crush the remaining cigarette as I drop it back into the pack.

“We gotta get going,” Hansen tells me, looking up at the sky as if he’s some sort of Boy Scout who can gauge the time of day by pinpointing the sun’s position. “It’ll be dark soon. We should probably find a place to stop for the night.”

“No shit, Hans, but in case you haven’t noticed, there’s not much out here.” I brush the slimy gunk off the back of my shorts, the only clothes the bitch left me with—the ones I fell asleep in. Other than our sleeping bags and the tent we were sleeping in, she took nearly everything when they left. All I have left is that last cigarette butt and my cell phone, which is useless this far away from civilization.

I assume she thought we’d starve or freeze or get eaten by wolves by nightfall, all of which could still happen.

Hansen, at least, has been using his backpack as some sort of lumpy pillow, and has the random assortment of crap he was keeping in there: some dirty clothes, an iPod that’s already dead, a toothbrush, which I’ll probably get desperate enough to share by morning, and some other stuff that’s useless in this situation—crumpled plastic wrap, a cheap ballpoint pen that’s leaking blue ink, a key he found on the street, some notes and a half-full can of AXE body spray. “I don’t know who you thought you were gonna impress out here,” I’d harassed him when I realized he’d packed the disgusting cologne for our “family campout.”

But it’s his love of junk food that’s kept us going for most of the day, and in the same way I’d decided to conserve my cigarette, we’d decided we should ration the candy, too.

“I didn’t mean like a Holiday Inn or anything, Greta. I just meant we should find a place to camp is all. Man, sometimes you’re such a...” He stops himself before actually saying it, somehow remembering that word is off-limits in this situation. We made a pact when our dad first introduced us to her—Bitch was her name, and hers alone. If only he hadn’t been so lonely after Mom died. If only we’d been enough for him. “You don’t have to be so rude,” Hansen insists instead, sounding whinier than any self-respecting fourteen-year-old should, and it reminds me of when we were little and Hansen would hold my hand whenever we’d pass the big kids at the bus stop. They liked to tease him because he had a stutter back then—and still does sometimes, when he gets really stressed-out.

“Ignore them,” I’d tell him under my breath, even as the older kids would start in. “Wh-wh-what’s u-u-up, H-Hans-s-sen? G-g-g-ot your s-s-s-sister to p-p-protect you?”

I’d squeeze his hand in mine, wishing I was big enough to bash their teeth in. But I was in only the second grade, and they were sixth graders. That was the longest year of my life, and I felt sick nearly every single day when we’d have to leave for school. I didn’t miss a day that year, even when I had the flu and had to drag myself out of bed, just so Hansen didn’t have to go by himself.

Because no matter how much I’d picked on my brother, I’d have been damned if I’d let anyone else hurt him.

When those kids graduated up to junior high and switched to another bus, I was finally able to breathe again, and Hansen’s stutter had finally started to ease.

“Sorry,” I mutter now, because he’s right. And because it’s not his fault we’re lost, and because I’d rather be with him than be out here all by myself. “I’m just...” I falter for an excuse. “Hungry. And tired, I guess.”

It’s enough, and Hansen grins. That’s the thing about younger brothers—they’re pushovers. “Maybe we can split a candy bar or something,” I offer, securing our truce.

He pulls a Snickers bar from his bag, crumples the wrapper and tosses it on the ground, leaving it behind like the rest of our trash, an un-eco-friendly trail for anyone who might be interested in finding us. As if.

The sugar high keeps us going for a while longer, but it’s been too long since we’ve had a real meal, and I feel shaky, unsteady. Plus, it’s cold. Who camps this close to winter, anyway? My toes are getting numb in my shoes, and my smoker’s lungs are burning. We’ve been walking for what feels like miles, but I really have no idea, since I don’t know how to measure miles. I’m convinced it’s been at least fifty.

“Do you smell that?” Hansen says, raising his nose to the wind.

I laugh-frown at how ridiculous he looks, all wolfish, like he’s just caught the scent of something and he’s alerting his pack. But then I smell it, and suddenly I freeze, too, sniffing the air. “It...smells like...smoke. Like somebody’s cooking.” I glance at him before I start running, to make sure he’s right behind me, and now it’s not the sugar high that has me moving. I didn’t think anything could make me ignore the blisters on my feet or the pounding in my head, but apparently all I needed was a little hope.

Branches whip at me, sticking and pulling and stabbing as I tear through them. The smoky smell gets stronger, so I know we’re going in the right direction. I pray it really is food, and that I’m not leading my brother toward some sort of massive, raging forest fire. But I don’t see any signs of one, at least not the signs I know to look for, the ones from Bambi—cartoon animals running toward us, trying to flee the fire to escape with their lives. So we keep moving toward it.

“I see it,” Hansen whispers exuberantly, pulling me to a stop. He reaches over my shoulder and I follow his hand to see what he’s pointing at. Tendrils of black smolder up from just past a stand of trees blocking our view. “There,” he says. “You see?”

I nod. I do see. And I smell it, certain now that someone is cooking something, as that seared aroma reaches out to us. Beckoning us.

I pause for only a second as I wonder about who lives there, all the way out here in the woods. But when my mouth waters, all my second thoughts are vanquished, and I grab Hansen’s hand and drag him out of this last stand of trees toward our salvation. I think, Take that, you bitch. We’ve done it. We’ve saved ourselves!

It’s a cabin, we realize as we clear the trees, and the smoke is coming from the chimney.

A remote cabin in the middle of the woods, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid my (still twitching) eyes on. That, and the shiny new Forest Service truck parked out in front.

So not only did we find us a cabin, but a park ranger to boot! I can’t wait to retell this story when we get back home and go to the police to tell them what she did to us. I can’t wait to see the step-bitch’s face when she realizes her plan was a miserable failure because she left us within spitting distance of a forest ranger who saved our lives. Nice plan!

“Go ahead, knock.” I push Hansen ahead of me on the tidy stone path lined with little purple flowers.

“You knock.” It annoys me that his whine-voice is back.

I exhale loudly, but I’m in no mood to argue. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll do it.” I stomp to the door and square my shoulders. We’ve already made it this far—what difference does it make who knocks?

After I do, and then do it again, we stand there forever. I start to wonder if anyone’s really in there at all. I guess the fire could’ve been left burning in the fireplace, and that mouthwatering food smell could be remnants of something cooked earlier, still lingering in the air. My saliva glands are on overtime.

I flinch when the door finally opens, and I stumble backward into Hansen, who jumps, too. The man on the other side is shrouded in almost total darkness, but I can see enough of him—of his khaki-green forest ranger uniform, anyway, with its logos or patches or whatever they are that makes it official—to feel myself relax. It really is a ranger living here.

I can almost hear the bitch’s temper tantrum when she realizes her inheritance-for-one just got redivided.

“Can I help you?” The man inside opens the door wider, and that heavenly smell wafts out to meet us. He takes a step onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind him and cutting us off from what I’m now considering my dinner.

“We, um, we’re...”

“Lost,” I state when Hansen fumbles for an explanation. “We were camping and we got lost. We were hoping you could help us.” I raise my eyebrows at his uniform meaningfully. “Maybe let us call someone so we can get a ride.”

The ranger is basketball-player tall, and lean. But he’s white as white gets, and most good players...well, they aren’t.

Besides, he’s old. At least forty, maybe even forty-five.

His thick black brows furrow at us. “Where you kids camping?”

“Dunno,” Hansen answers, finally able to speak again. “We were with our parents—our dad and our stepmom—” I elbow him. No need to tell our life story, I say with my nudge.

“We got separated. I’m sure they’re awful worried,” I add. “It’d be great if...if we could use your phone to let them know we’re okay.”

He looks beyond us, scanning the woods we’ve just come from, then his gaze moves from me to Hansen and back to me again. I smile my most sincere smile, infusing it with as much trust me as I can manage. He smiles back.

“Got no phone,” he explains. “Besides, I got dinner ready in the oven. You kids can wait out here if you want.” He shrugs then, his lips turning down in an afterthought. “Or you’re welcome to come in for some supper. Then I can take you on up to the ranger’s station. There’s a phone there, and a radio, too. We’ll be able to reach someone for you.”

I turn to Hansen, gloating with my grin. Food and a ride to a phone? Am I a good sister or what?

We both nod, and the man opens his door so we can eagerly follow him inside. The cabin is dark and I immediately realize the reason: there’s no electricity. I see a couple candles burning here and there, but the only real source of light is coming from a fireplace somewhere in the next room. I can see the light bouncing over the wooden floorboards, leaping and wavering.

“What’re your names?” the man asks as he leads us toward the fire.

“I’m Hansen—”

“And I’m Greta,” I finish, hoping he doesn’t hear that my stomach is already growling as we maneuver through a doorway and find ourselves standing in an enormous kitchen.

It has to be the biggest room in the house. On one wall, there’s a giant fireplace made from stone, and in front of it is a round table with mismatched chairs that look like they were hand carved. Whittled. In the center of the table there’s a vase filled with the same purple flowers that line the walkway to the cabin.

“You kids hungry?” he asks, and I realize he never told us his name. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s already pulling plates down from a cupboard and filling each one with the juiciest, most mouthwateringly perfect steaks I’ve ever laid eyes on. I realize that’s what we must’ve smelled, and I wonder, just for the briefest moment before my appetite gets the best of me as I watch the juices pool around the seared meat, why he has so many of them. He cuts thick slices from a loaf of bread that still steams, and sets a plate in front of each of us.

I want to be polite, and I try to think of something to say—some way to express my gratitude, something coherent and thoughtful—but instead my stomach rumbles and I can’t wait any longer. My knife slides through the steak and I shovel a huge bite into my mouth, already cutting a second piece.

Hansen grins at me, and I know what he’s thinking. I know because I’m thinking it, too. Thank god we found this place. Thank god this guy has enough food to feed an army.

The ranger goes to the cupboard and then ladles something from a pan simmering on his stove. “Here,” he says, setting a mug in front of me. “Spiced cider. I made it myself.”

“Thanks,” I mumble through a full mouth. The steak is good, although it’s kinda hard to tell since it’s so overseasoned. There’re a lot of herbs on the outside—the dude probably has a garden where he picks them fresh. There’s something gritty on the outside—probably cracked pepper—that stings my tongue. Right now, I’d eat a slug on a stick, so the pepper’s not so bad.

I stop inhaling my food long enough to glance at Hansen, and see that he’s reaching for his cider. He swallows down one giant gulp, and then another.

I try mine, too, and it’s almost sickly sweet. Still, all that sugar doesn’t stop me from taking another sip, and another.

The man sits across from Hansen, watching him eat. “Everything okay?” he asks, checking on me, too.

We both nod in tandem, like good little dinner guests.

“Good,” he says in his deep voice, his rangery voice, and I feel warm all over. The food is really getting to me, and suddenly I realize how tired I am. “After dinner, we’ll get you two all squared away. How’s that sound?”

It sounds great, and I open my mouth to say so, just as I see Hansen’s eyelids start to flutter. My eyelids want to close, too, but I force them to stay open. My head is all of a sudden heavy, too heavy, maybe, for my neck. My rubbery neck that doesn’t seem like it should be holding up anything.

My chin bobs forward, and I’m surprised when I feel it smack against my chest. The shock of it, of that action, causes me to jerk upright again.

“I’m glad you found me,” the ranger continues, his voice now sounding watery, wavy. Warbly. “Some fates are better’n others.”

And then my vision goes black and my face crashes onto my plate.

My first attempt to speak sounds less like a word and more like a grunt, like I’m a wounded bear or a dog, and my throat aches from the effort I put into it. At first I think I should just give up. It’s too hard, I think, because it is. It really, really is.

But then I consider my brother, and I try again, willing my voice to be stronger, clearer this time. “Han—Hansen?” It’s a croak, but it’s good. Better.

I open my eyes, which is also harder than it should be, and I can’t see right away. After a moment my vision clears.

And I wish that it hadn’t.

It’s a mistake is my first coherent thought, and I blink several times when I realize it’s not my eyesight that’s messed up, it’s the situation.

I’m in a cage. Wire mesh surrounds me, the kind of enclosure you see at pet stores or dog pounds.

I reach for the door, but it’s been secured with the thick strip of a zip tie, and I know I’m trapped inside of it.

I can get on only my hands and knees inside the cramped space, and I might be able to turn all the way around if I roll my shoulders, or maybe if I was double-jointed, which I’m not. I can’t stop thinking about Hansen, and I wonder where the hell he is, where that effing ranger has taken him, because I’m sure the crazy asshole has him. Somewhere. Maybe caged, like me.

And I’ve got to find him.

“Hey! Help!” I shout. I worry briefly about knocking the cage over, because it’s on a table or a bench, or something off the ground that I can’t see because it’s underneath me, but I shake and rattle the cage as hard as I can until my fingers feel raw where they’re wrapped, like claws, around the wire. It’s no good, though; the metal is sturdier than I thought it would be, and it won’t bend or even flex no matter how hard I try. “Someone help me! Let me out of here!”

This goes on for a while, the yelling, until I’m sweaty and exhausted, which seems like it happens way too soon, but maybe that’s because I was drugged. I’m sure that’s what happened, anyway. Ranger Dude must’ve drugged us, either the food or that “spiced” cider he gave us. The cider I chugged like it was liquid candy. Or maybe I’m just so damned tired because my head is still aching from a gross lack of caffeine and not nearly enough nicotine....

And then suddenly it hits me, like a lightning bolt. And I wish I was double-jointed. It would make it so much easier to find out if I still have my cigarettes.

I know it seems like a shitty time for a smoke, and it totally is. I’d be the worst sister in the world if I were jonesing for a cigarette so bad that I’d rather take a drag than find a way out of this mess. But here’s the deal—I think that is my way out.

Not my cigarettes...my lighter.

So I frantically contort, slamming my elbow against the metal walls until the thin fabric of my hoodie tears and the skin beneath scrapes...ripping until I actually feel blood trickle down my arm. But I can’t afford to stop and check it out, even if I could somehow twist my arm around so I could see it. I ignore the sting and thrust my fingers clumsily toward my pocket, panting because they’re almost there, just beneath the edge of the denim. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my own ears.

My fingertips brush something, and I think—I think!—it might be the crumpled pack containing the one last cigarette I’d been saving. But that’s not what I’m after.

I need that lighter. My gold-plated birthday gift. If I can get it...if I can just reach it...it just might save my ass.

Tears gather in my eyes—tears of frustration and sheer determination—as I desperately try to coax the pack higher...higher in my pocket...sliding it little by little with my fingertips. When it’s high enough that the pad of my index finger is finally inside of it, I let out a gasp. It’s within my reach, and I give one more tug before I know, for sure, that I’ve done it.

My fingers—all of them—close around the plastic-coated package, and I squeeze my eyes shut, releasing a sigh that almost sounds like a giggle.

If Hansen were here, he’d give me a ration of shit for being such a girl.

I don’t care, though, because I have every intention of saving him, and I might never care if he makes fun of me again. I might never care if he borrows my crap or reads my texts or makes out with one of my friends after she drinks too much at a party ever again. I just want my little brother. Alive.

I wonder briefly if his stutter is back now, and then realize I don’t have time to waste worrying over things I have no control over.

When I finally pull out the lighter for the second time that day, I see it in an entirely different way. It’s no longer a craptastic birthday present from the step-bitch, it’s now a lifeline. My only hope.

It’s fancy, and probably more expensive than some people’s cars, because even though she probably didn’t put any real thought into it, she doesn’t do anything half-assed, and I hold it reverently. Afraid that I might somehow drop it, and then I’ll be trapped in here forever. Or until that guy comes back to do whatever he’s trapped me in here to do to me. I flick my thumb over the wheel, the way I’ve done so many times before, and I hear the familiar hiss and see the sparks. My heart skips as the ethereal gas sputters.

And then the flame catches.

It the most glorious thing I’ve ever seen—and yes, I get that the word glorious seems like a bit of an overstatement, but it’s true. It is glorious.

I bend my wrist until the flame finds its way through the wire enclosure, until I have the lighter positioned just so beneath the plastic of the zip tie. I have no idea if this’ll even work. The zip tie is thick, and the lighter could run out of butane before the flame can do the trick, but I have to try. I have to.

I’m not sure which happens first, but it’s not long until my wrist aches from the strange angle and my thumb burns from being pressed against the rapidly heating metal of the wheel. I can’t let it go, though, or the flame will go out. Already I can smell the plastic burning, and it makes me wonder if he can smell it, too. If he’ll know what I’m up to.

The white plastic starts to blacken and blister. My thumb is blistering, too, I’m sure of it, but still, I keep going. Smoke is rising from the zip tie, but other than the fact that it seems like there’s too much smoke, I don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere.

Still, I loop my fingers through the metal mesh and jiggle the cage door. When it doesn’t budge, I feel hope evaporating in a cloud of burned-plastic smoke, and I sag heavily against the wire. “No,” I wheeze, my throat dry and scratchy.

Only, this time, when I lean against the door, something happens. Something so unexpected that I nearly topple out onto the floor.

It was the snap of plastic. Plastic made thinner and weaker from being burned, and then the door of the cage banged open, swinging wide and hard, and rebounding back at me again. I laugh out loud at the turn of events, a choked sound somewhere between shock and relief, and I have to cover my mouth to squelch the noise.

Already the crashing of metal was too loud. I can’t risk my own squeals of delight alerting him to my escape.

I don’t hesitate, though, and I tumble out of the cage headfirst. I use my hands to break my fall as I drop the few feet to the wooden floor, pocketing my gleaming lighter before dragging myself to my feet.

I’m still in the cabin, I’m certain of it. The floor here is exactly the same, although this is no time to admire the craftsmanship.

From here, my choice is easy—there’s only one door. My legs are cramped, and without knowing where Ranger Dude is, I warn myself to keep quiet. I creep through the door, cringing when it squeaks, and cringing again when I find myself standing in total darkness.

Again, I’m reaching for the lighter, and when I ignite it a chill races down my spine.

Faces stare back at me. Hundreds of them.

I’m surrounded by a gallery of images, some faded and torn, some peeling at the edges. Some are smiling and others are stone-faced. Some are young and some are old, and many are in-between, but all of them have one thing in common.

They are the faces of the missing, one and all. At least that’s what the posters and flyers say, the ones plastered from floor to ceiling, on every wall around me. I turn in a circle, taking them in, men and women, children and teens.

Like me and Hansen.

We’re missing, too. And only two people know it: the step-bitch and Ranger Dude.

The same ranger who’s covered his walls in a montage of missing-persons flyers. The same ranger who drugged me and locked me in a cage...and has taken Hansen god knows where.

That’s when the smell hits me, the smoky, barbecuey scent that drew us here in the first place. I picture the dinner that Ranger Dude laid out in front of us, the steaks—grilled and overseasoned.

I hear footsteps above me and I realize he’s up there, and I whirl around, searching for something to use as a weapon.

In the lighter’s flame, I see nothing, but as I spin, my feet get caught on something, tangled in canvas and straps, and I nearly lose my balance. Arms out, I careen forward and catch the wall, ripping several of the macabre flyers before I can right myself.

But when I relight the golden lighter, I see what tripped me up, and a sense of...I’m not sure what—nostalgia...relief...urgency—tears through me all at once. It’s Hansen’s backpack.

Without thinking, I reach for it, draping it over my shoulder as I head for the stairs in front of me. My chest aches with an overwhelming need to find my brother, while the fear that I might already be too late crushes me.

At the top of the steps, I pause. My mouth is so dehydrated my tongue feels like a foreign object, making it hard to swallow. There’s only one way to know if Hansen is still alive.

I slip through the doorway, expecting to walk into a bloodbath, but I find myself in the kitchen, and it’s quiet and empty. Every nerve in my body is on fire, every sense on alert.

Whatever the smoky smell, it’s not coming from in here.

And then I hear it. Him. Hansen.

And I’m moving, running toward the back of the house. Toward the sound of my brother’s screams.

He’s still screaming when I reach him, which is probably why Ranger Dude doesn’t hear me burst into the room—whatever this place is. The ranger’s back is to me, blocking Hansen’s face from view, but I see enough to get the idea.

I know now what the smell is. On one wall is the biggest effing barbecue I’ve ever seen. It’s more like an oven or an incinerator, and it’s blazing, with flames jumping and dancing within. I also know why my brother is screaming. He’s strapped to a table, like a metal gurney with plastic sheeting spread all underneath him. Ranger Dude is wearing an apron that’s equally plastic.

I don’t have to have it spelled out for me. Ranger Dude looks like some sort of deranged butcher, and don’t think I missed the assortment of knives and saws he has laid out on the tray beside the gurney.

“Wh-why are you d-doing this?” Hansen is screaming over and over again, his stutter getting the best of him.

Instead of answering, Ranger Dude wads a piece of cotton that looks suspiciously like Hansen’s own T-shirt and shoves it into my brother’s mouth. It doesn’t stop the screaming, but now it’s muffled and incoherent.

Ranger Dude leans close to my brother’s face, and I see him stroke his forehead. “Like I told your sister, some fates are better’n others. Think of it this way. You’re doing me a favor. It’s almost winter and my freezer’s getting low. Not a lot of hikers once the weather changes.” Hansen’s eyes go wide and he struggles against the restraints holding him down. This seems to amuse the ranger, and he chuckles, and the sound is so innocuous, at odds with his words, which are so chilling that my skin crawls.

I try to tell myself that I misunderstood his meaning, but I can’t get the image of all those steaks out of my head, and I know I understood him perfectly. It makes me sick, and I want to gag, to puke up anything that might be left in my stomach, except I don’t have time for that. I can’t even afford to wallow in my own disgust.

The very idea that I might have eaten someone...someone from one of those missing-persons flyers. Does it make me a cannibal if I didn’t know?

I can’t afford to think about that right now. I need to get my brother, and get us the hell out of here before we’re the ones being served for dinner.

From the moment I came into the room, I realized Hansen had already given me the perfect weapon. It was the same thing I always noticed about him first, long before I ever saw him. His cologne...his stupid AXE body spray.

My hand is inside his backpack and pulling out the black can with the fire-red logo at the same time Hansen’s eyes go wide for an entirely different reason. He’s spotted me standing by the door.

I lift my fingers to my lips while I reach for my lighter.

My heart feels like it’s about to pound out of my chest as I take three hesitant steps closer to the man whose back is still to me. My mind is reeling, and I wonder if I’m making a mistake, or if I’m even capable of doing what I’m considering.

In front of me, Ranger Dude reaches for one of his long serrated knives. He poises it above my little brother’s bare chest and my heart seizes. All my doubts go up in a puff of smoke.

All that matters is saving Hansen.

I hold the lighter in front of the body spray and press the trigger on the can, releasing its pressurized contents.

When it works, I blink in surprise.

Just like that I’m holding a makeshift flamethrower. And just like that fire is shooting at the back of Ranger Dude’s head.

Everything happens so much faster than I imagined it would. I expected to surprise him, maybe to steal a knife while he was distracted by the flames. I’d been terrified that he’d only be stunned for a minute, and then he’d come after me, too, and I’d have to fight him off with my completely unskilled bare hands.

What I didn’t expect was how quickly his hair would catch fire. That and the plastic he’s wearing, as if it was doused in gasoline. Or the way it would flash hot, and then scorch and shrink, clinging to him like a second skin and making it impossible to shed...to escape.

And then he’s the one screaming. He shrieks and runs, bumping into walls and knocking things over—the tray with the knives, the gurney Hansen is strapped to, candles that were casting light around the room. I just stand there for a minute, watching him writhe, until I hear Hansen.

“G-Greta...” It’s Hansen, and only then do I realize how stiff and numb I am. “Greta, help m-me!”

I look and see that he’s pinned beneath the overturned gurney. I rush to him, kneeling low. Beside us, Ranger Dude rolls on the ground, trying to extinguish the fire. But he’s too late to stop it. He continues to scream and screech. The smell of charred flesh and burned plastic fills the air.

“Are you okay?” I ask above the fading wails. My hands are shaking as I fumble with the straps, and it takes me far too long to unfasten them, but when I do, I wrap my arms around my little brother. “It’s okay. I’m here now. Everything’ll be better now.”

At last, the thrashing ranger goes still.

I breathe my brother in, the smell of his cologne suddenly comforting, reassuring. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” It’s dark now without the candles and without the flames from the burning ranger filling the room. I haul Hansen to his feet, letting him lean on me all he needs as we stagger around the crispy remains in the center of the floor. The barbecue, or incinerator or whatever it is, still blazes behind its closed doors on the far side of the room, and reminds me of what Ranger Dude was planning to do with Hansen, and probably me, too. I wonder how many of those people from the flyers they’ll find when they come back to this place and scour the freezers. I wonder, too, how many of them are already...gone.

We find the keys to the Forest Service truck in a drawer in the kitchen. I assume if we follow the road out of here, eventually, my cell phone will have service and we’ll be able to call for help.

Hansen stops leaning on me as we make our way outside, but he doesn’t let go of my hand until we get in the truck. We both sigh when it starts, and I sigh again when I tap the fuel gauge, indicating the tank is full.

Out of habit, I reach for my cigarettes, the crushed pack in my pocket.

“H-how’d you do it?” Hansen asks just as I’m about to light up.

I’m holding the gold lighter in front of my face, and a half smile finds my lips. Instead of lighting the butt, I unroll the window and toss it outside. But still, I light the lighter, holding it up so Hansen can admire it. “I guess some gifts are better’n others.”

He might not understand exactly what I’m trying to say—that the step-bitch did this to us, but that she also gave us exactly what we needed to save ourselves. He smiles all the same. “I can’t wait to see her face,” he says without a single stutter. And I nod while I jam the truck in Reverse so we can hightail it outta there.

Because I couldn’t agree with him more. I can’t wait to get home and set things straight.

* * * * *