Nothing Short of Dying by Erik Storey Read Free Book Online Page A

my nosing around had probably alerted Lance that I was coming? I hoped the former. Maybe word would get back to Jen, give her hope. But I forced myself to push those thoughts away, focusing instead on this new traveling companion I’d acquired and how I was going to get rid of her. Allie was tough, smart, and resilient, but I was trying not to fall into the old habits. I feared the danger I’d put her in if we stayed together.
    â€œTook you long enough,” Allie said as I finally returned to our campsite. The tent was set up, the fluffy sleeping bags were laid out, and the camp chairs and coolers were set in a semicircle around a freshly dug pit. “Right there,” she said, pointing at the hole.
    I nodded, impressed. Not to be outdone, I dropped the pile by the hole and went back to the truck. I reached into one of the duffels, found a small leather bag, and brought it over to the pit. After pulling out the contents and placing them by the firewood, I jogged into the clearing to strip a big sagebrush of its outer bark. Once I had a bird’s-nest-size ball, I loped back into camp, made a tepee and log cabin with the firewood in the pit, and put the kit together. Allie sat down in one of the camp chairs and watched, amused.
    A small, split branch of cottonwood with holes on the top and notches on the side went on the ground. Underneath this I put a small, flat piece of bark below a notch. A foot-long round cottonwood stick went into the hole with the notch and bark below. With what looked like a small, three-foot bow, I wrapped string around the round stick. After that I picked up a shot-glass-size piece of wood and rubbed it on my hair, making sure that the grease from the long day would lubricate the socket.
    Then it was all just basic movements: kneel down, place a foot on the split cottonwood, stick the socket on top of the round stick to hold it in place and apply pressure, then use the bow like a crosscut saw, spinning the stick like a drill. In less than ten sweaty minutes, I had smoke. I kept going a few minutes longer and had a coal, which I dumped onto the little piece of bark and carefully moved to the bird’s nest. Then I blew, soft at first, then longer and harder until the nest burst into flames. I placed those into the prepared firewood and pampered my baby until the flames were right.
    Normally, with a Bic and dry wood, I could get a fire roaring in a minute or two. This took a little longer, but I hoped it would be more impressive.
    â€œNot bad,” Allie said.
    I shrugged, secretly very proud of myself. The sun had started to set by the time my fire took hold, its flames waving frantically up toward a sky the same red-and-orange color.
    From my big bag I pulled out some cans and the small ziplock containing spices. When the fire burned down enough to add more wood, I put a little Dutch oven onto the coals and built the fire up behind it. Then I threw into the oven some pumpkin puree, chicken stock, and a little thyme as Allie sat in a chair across from me and watched intently. She looked relaxed, her chin in her hands, elbows on her knees. The fire turned her bare legs the color of Cheetos. “What are we having?” she asked, her nose wrinkled.
    â€œPumpkin soup.” I looked into the cooler, grabbed out two bottles. “You want wine or whiskey?”
    â€œI’m not a slam-back-the-hard-stuff type,” she said, her gaze lost in the flames.
    â€œWine it is, then,” I said, digging in the bags for my long-lost wine tool. I found it, opened the bottle, and poured some into a plastic cup. I poured whiskey into mine. Why not , I thought. I really should cut down on the stuff myself, but this didn’t seem like the time. I handed Allie her cup, which she accepted with a smile, then I stirred the soup and added dried onions. We both sat and sipped quietly for a while, watching the fire and listening to the birds sing and the air swish through the pines.
    We