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The forest had gone silent in that weird way that only happened when winter was almost dead, a heavy, waiting quiet where every snapped twig sounded like a gunshot. Natalie Scatorccio moved through it like she belonged there, her breath making little clouds that vanished almost immediately in the bitter air. The lever-action rifle felt like part of her now, as familiar as her own heartbeat. Months in this frozen wasteland had turned her hunting skills into something raw and instinctive.
She'd been following the deer for almost two hours, tracking those distinctive hoofprints in the patchy snow, checking out the fresh droppings, noting where it had nibbled bark off the low spruce branches. Food was getting scarce as hell as winter dragged on and on. The group was down to one pathetic meal a day, and those hollow-eyed stares around the fire each night hit Natalie harder than she wanted to admit. She was their hunter. Their lifeline. If she screwed up, they all starved. Simple as that.
A blur of movement ahead made her freeze mid-step. There, a young buck, skinny but still big enough to keep them fed for days. Its left ear had this distinctive notch, probably from some old fight or accident. Natalie brought up her rifle slowly, every movement careful and practiced. The deer was half-hidden behind some thick brush, grazing on whatever pitiful vegetation was left under the snow. She needed a better angle.
Moving carefully, she started working her way around the clearing, looking for higher ground. The ridge on her left would give her the perfect shot. She climbed without making a sound, never taking her eyes off the animal, placing each step like her life depended on it, which, honestly, it did.
She was almost there when everything went to shit. A rock shifted under her boot, nothing major, just enough to throw her off for a split second. In that moment of trying to catch herself, her foot hit a patch of ice hiding under the thin snow. Natalie felt herself going down before her brain could catch up, her body twisting as she tried to save the rifle. The ground came up fast and mean, and this sickening pop mixed with white-hot agony exploded through her shoulder when she slammed into the unforgiving earth.
The deer took off at the sound of her choked scream, disappearing into the thick pines with a flash of white tail. Natalie barely noticed, too busy drowning in the pain shooting from her shoulder down her arm. She lay there for what felt like forever, breathing through gritted teeth, trying to get her bearings. When she finally tried to sit up, the pain almost knocked her out cold.
"Fuck," she hissed, cradling her right arm against her chest. Even the tiniest movement sent waves of nausea through her. With her left hand, she gingerly touched her shoulder, wincing at how wrong it felt. Dislocated for sure. Maybe worse.
The reality of her situation hit her like a sledgehammer through the fog of pain. She was at least two miles from the cabin. Alone. With a useless arm and night coming fast. And she'd blown it with the deer, the same buck she'd been tracking for days, the one with that notched ear. The one that could've fed them all for a week.
Natalie squeezed her eyes shut, giving herself one moment to fall apart before survival mode kicked in. She had to get back. Somehow.
Using her good arm and legs, she managed to haul herself upright, swaying as dizziness washed over her. The rifle—she couldn't leave it behind. Gritting her teeth, she bent to grab it, tears springing to her eyes as the movement jarred her busted shoulder. She couldn't carry it right, so she awkwardly wedged it under her left arm and started the long, brutal trek back to the cabin.
Every step was pure torture. The forest, which she usually navigated like it was her backyard, seemed to have turned into some kind of obstacle course from hell. Branches grabbed at her clothes, roots tried to trip her, and the uneven ground made keeping her balance with one working arm nearly impossible. The pain in her shoulder had settled into this constant, throbbing agony that occasionally spiked into something sharper when she moved wrong.
By the time the cabin came into view, the sun was setting, throwing long shadows across the clearing. Natalie was soaked in sweat despite the cold, her face pale and drawn. She stumbled the last few yards, her vision starting to tunnel.
"Hey! Something's wrong with Nat!" The voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.
People poured out of the cabin, rushing toward her. Natalie recognized Taissa getting to her first, then Van. Their faces kept swimming in and out of focus.
"What happened? Are you hurt?" Taissa's voice was sharp with worry.
"Shoulder," Natalie managed, her voice barely a rasp. "Fell. Dislocated, I think."
More voices joined in, a chaos of concern and questions that Natalie couldn't process through the pain. It was getting overwhelming, her consciousness slipping. She was dimly aware of being helped toward the cabin, multiple hands keeping her upright.
Then a different voice cut through the noise—higher-pitched but surprisingly take-charge.
"Everyone back up! Give her space to breathe." Misty Quigley pushed through the small crowd, her glasses catching the fading light. "Get her inside, by the fire. Carefully!"
Natalie found herself being guided to a corner of the main room that had been quickly cleared, a makeshift bed laid out near the fireplace. The warmth was like a slap after hours in the freezing forest. The room spun around her—faces, voices, the crackling fire, as shock and pain threatened to drag her under.
Misty's face appeared above her, unusually serious behind those thick glasses. "I need to look at your shoulder, Natalie."
Under normal circumstances, Natalie would've made some cutting remark about keeping Misty's hands to herself. But these weren't normal circumstances, and they both knew it. Misty was the closest thing they had to a doctor out here. So Natalie just nodded weakly, bracing herself.
Misty's hands were surprisingly gentle as she carefully cut away the sleeve of Natalie's jacket and shirt, exposing the injured shoulder. A collective gasp went up from the watchers. Even through her pain-addled state, Natalie could tell it looked bad—swollen and misshapen, already turning dark with bruises.
"It's dislocated," Misty confirmed, her fingers examining the area with clinical precision. "And I think there might be some damage. I need to put it back in place."
"Just do it," Natalie ground out, sweat beading on her forehead.
Misty nodded, all business now. "I need someone strong to help hold her steady. Travis?"
Travis stepped forward, looking pale but determined. Misty positioned him at Natalie's uninjured side.
"This is going to hurt," Misty warned, meeting Natalie's eyes directly. "A lot. But it'll feel better once it's back in place."
Natalie managed a grim smile. "Just get it over with, Quigley."
Misty nodded, then turned to the others. "Someone find something for her to bite down on."
A leather belt materialized, and Natalie clamped it between her teeth. She locked eyes with Misty, giving a short nod.
Misty took a deep breath, positioning her hands on Natalie's arm and shoulder. "On three. One... two..."
She moved on two, a classic trick that caught Natalie off guard. The pain was blinding, a white-hot explosion that tore a muffled scream from her throat despite the belt. There was a sickening pop as the joint slid back into place, and then—a different kind of pain, still intense but somehow more manageable.
Natalie spat out the belt, gasping. The room spun around her, faces blurring together.
"Good job," Misty was saying, her voice sounding far away. "The worst part's over. I'm going to make a sling and immobilize it now."
Natalie wanted to respond, to thank her maybe, but the combination of pain, exhaustion, and relief was too much. The darkness that had been hovering at the edges of her vision finally closed in, and she let herself fall into unconsciousness.
∇ ∇ ∇
Natalie drifted in and out of awareness, fragments of sensation and sound filtering through the haze of pain and whatever herbal concoction Misty had given her for it. Voices murmuring. The crackle of the fire. Cool fingers against her forehead, checking for fever. Time lost all meaning, stretching and compressing in weird ways.
At some point, she surfaced enough to realize she'd been moved to a small room off the main living area, a storage space that had been hastily converted into a makeshift sickroom. The pain in her shoulder had dulled to a persistent throb, and her arm was secured in what looked like a professionally crafted sling.
She must have made some sound, because suddenly Misty was there, leaning over her with concern written all over her face.
"Water?" Natalie croaked, her throat painfully dry.
Misty nodded, helping her sit up slightly and holding a cup to her lips. The water was cool and sweet, the best thing Natalie had ever tasted. She drank greedily until Misty pulled the cup away.
"Not too fast," Misty cautioned. "You'll make yourself sick."
Natalie wanted to argue, to demand more, but exhaustion was already pulling her back under. The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her again was Misty's face, lit by the soft glow of a candle, watching her with an intensity that might have been unsettling if Natalie had been more alert.
When Natalie next woke up fully, the small room was dim, lit only by moonlight filtering through a narrow window. Her shoulder throbbed dully, but the excruciating pain had subsided to something more bearable. She was lying on a makeshift bed, covered with several blankets, her arm secured in that sling.
She blinked, trying to orient herself. The events leading to her injury came back in pieces—the hunt, the fall, the deer escaping, the agonizing journey back. She remembered Misty resetting her shoulder, the blinding pain, then nothing clear after that.
As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Natalie realized with a start that she wasn't alone. A figure sat in a chair beside her bed, perfectly still. Misty. Watching her. Not just sitting vigil, but actively staring at her with an unsettling intensity, her face half-shadowed in the moonlight.
Natalie's breath caught, a momentary spike of alarm shooting through her. How long had Misty been sitting there, watching her sleep? The thought was disturbing in a way Natalie couldn't quite put her finger on.
Misty must have noticed the change in her breathing, because she suddenly shifted, looking away quickly as if embarrassed to be caught. She adjusted her glasses in that nervous way she had, clearing her throat softly.
"You're awake," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "How do you feel?"
Natalie considered calling her out on the creepy staring but decided against it. She needed Misty's medical expertise too much right now to piss her off.
"Like shit," she answered honestly, her voice rough with sleep and pain. "How long was I out?"
"About twelve hours," Misty replied, still not quite meeting her eyes. "It's just after midnight. You should try not to move too much yet."
Natalie tried to shift position and immediately regretted it as pain lanced through her shoulder. "Wasn't planning on it," she gritted out.
Misty reached for something on a small table nearby—a cup, Natalie realized. "I made more willow bark tea. It's not exactly Vicodin, but it should help take the edge off."
Natalie accepted the cup awkwardly with her left hand, surprised by the gesture. "Thanks."
She sipped the bitter liquid, grimacing at the taste but grateful for anything that might dull the pain. As the fog of unconsciousness continued to clear, reality began to set in. She couldn't hunt like this. Couldn't even hold her rifle properly, let alone aim and fire it.
"How bad is it?" she asked, nodding toward her shoulder.
Misty's expression grew serious. "The dislocation itself isn't too bad—I got it back in place cleanly. But there's definitely some damage. I can't tell exactly what without an MRI, obviously, but based on the symptoms and mechanism of injury..."
"English, Quigley," Natalie interrupted, not in the mood for a medical lecture.
Misty adjusted her glasses again. "Your shoulder's going to be out of commission for a while. Weeks, at least. Maybe longer. You try to use that arm too soon, you could cause permanent damage."
Natalie felt a cold dread settle in her stomach that had nothing to do with her injury. Weeks. Maybe longer. They'd starve long before then.
"That's not an option," she said flatly.
"Your body doesn't really care about options, Natalie," Misty replied, her tone matter-of-fact rather than unkind. "Don't move."
The reality of the situation hit Natalie like a physical blow. She was the hunter. That was her role, her purpose, the thing that made her valuable to the group. Without that, what was she? The thought should have been terrifying, but something else was nagging at her, a memory surfacing from the chaos of the crash itself.
She remembered Misty in those first brutal days, moving with surprising efficiency and authority. Misty, who had taken charge when Coach Ben was screaming, his leg a mangled mess. Misty with the hatchet, her movements precise and clinical as she'd made the decision none of them could make. The blood had sprayed across her face, painting her glasses crimson, and for just a moment, Misty had smiled. Not the nervous, people-pleasing smile she usually wore, but something else entirely. Something that had both terrified and fascinated Natalie.
That same competence had extended to everything else in those early days. Misty micromanaging the shelter construction, insisting on specific knot configurations that had seemed excessive but had kept their structures standing through the first brutal storms. Misty, who knew how to treat wounds, how to repair their crude traps when they broke.
She could do it,
Natalie thought suddenly, the idea hitting her with startling clarity.
Misty could take over as hunter. She has the knowledge, the attention to detail. And maybe... maybe I need her away from me while I figure out how to be useless.
The thought was both practical and selfish. Natalie knew she couldn't bear having Misty hovering over her constantly, witnessing her vulnerability, her helplessness. Better to give her something to do, something that would keep her occupied and away from Natalie's bedside vigil.
"The others need to know," Misty said gently, as if reading her thoughts. "They need to know you can't hunt."
Natalie nodded numbly, trying to compose herself. She couldn't let them see her fear. "Tell them in the morning. And Misty?"
"Yeah?"
"You're going to take over hunting duties."
Misty's eyes widened behind her glasses. "What? Natalie, I don't know how to..."
"You'll learn." Natalie's voice was firm, decisive. "You're the only one who could handle it. Travis is too reckless, doesn't know the forest like we do. Van's got her hands full with other things. It has to be you."
Misty looked genuinely uncertain, a rare expression for her. "I don't know if I can..."
"I'll teach you," Natalie said, surprising herself with the offer. "Once I'm mobile enough to walk, I'll come with you. Show you everything I know."
The idea of training Misty, of sharing her knowledge and skills, felt both generous and terrifying. It meant admitting she trusted Misty with their survival, with the one thing that had defined Natalie's worth in this place.
Misty nodded slowly, straightening her shoulders in that way she did when accepting a challenge. "Okay. If you think I can do it, I'll try."
Natalie felt a strange warmth at Misty's faith in her judgment. "You can do it, Quigley. I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't believe that."
Misty's smile was radiant, transforming her entire face. "Thank you. For trusting me with this."
Natalie just grunted, already feeling exhaustion pulling at her again. As she drifted back toward sleep, she tried to ignore the small voice in her head wondering if she'd just made a terrible mistake.
∇ ∇ ∇
Dawn brought hushed voices from the main room, the kind of urgent whispering that made Natalie's stomach clench before she was even fully awake. She shifted carefully, her shoulder protesting with a dull ache that reminded her exactly where she stood. Through the thin walls, she caught fragments of the conversation she'd been dreading.
"So how long before she can hunt again?" Shauna's voice, stretched tight with panic barely held in check.
"Weeks," came Misty's response, carrying that clinical detachment she wore when discussing medical stuff. "Could be longer. If she pushes too hard too fast, she'll fuck up that shoulder permanently."
"Great. Just fucking great." Mari's voice cut through like a blade. "We've got maybe two days worth of food if we're lucky, and that's stretching every scrap we have."
"Actually, I've been thinking about that," Misty said, and Natalie could practically hear her pushing up those glasses. "I could take over the hunting. Just until Nat gets better."
Dead silence. Then Van, carefully neutral: "No offense, Misty, but you've never even held a rifle, have you?"
"Not a rifle, no," Misty admitted. "But I get the basics. Physics, anatomy, trajectory stuff. It's not magic. And Natalie said she'd train me."
"What about Travis?" Shauna jumped in. "He actually knows how to hunt."
Natalie heard Misty take a breath, that little pause she did when she was choosing her words. "Travis is... well, he's pretty much a mess right now. Plus he doesn't know these woods like Natalie does. He doesn't understand how the animals move, where they go. This needs someone who can be methodical about it."
Smart answer, Natalie had to admit. Misty was positioning herself as the logical choice, not just the desperate one.
"I don't know," Taissa's voice joined the mix. "Seems risky as hell to bet everything on someone who's never done this before."
"What's the alternative?" Misty's voice got that edge it took on when she felt cornered. "Wait around while we all starve? At least if I try, we're doing something."
Time to step in. Natalie forced herself upright, ignoring the spike of pain, and called out: "She's right."
Footsteps rushed toward her room, faces crowding the doorway. Natalie met their worried looks head-on.
"Misty's the best shot we have," she said, her voice rough but steady. "She picks things up fast, doesn't lose her head when shit gets bad, and she already knows more about keeping us alive than the rest of us combined."
"But Nat," Van started, "hunting isn't just book knowledge. There's instinct involved, feel..."
"Instinct develops," Natalie cut her off. "Knowledge is harder to come by. Misty's got the foundation. I can teach her everything else."
She looked straight at Misty, who was hanging back behind the others, her face mixing gratitude with determination.
"How soon can we start?" Natalie asked.
Misty stepped forward. "Today, if you're up for it. Basic rifle stuff first, get me comfortable with the weapon."
Natalie nodded, already running through what she could manage with her busted shoulder. "Good. The rest of you can work on those traps, maybe expand the foraging area. We'll make this work."
The group scattered, still looking unsure but accepting the plan. When they were alone, Misty approached Natalie's bedside.
"Are you making fun of me?" Misty asked suddenly, that guarded look creeping across her face.
The question blindsided Natalie. "What? No. Why the hell would you think that?"
"Because..." Misty hesitated, fidgeting with her glasses. "Because people don't usually... I mean, you don't usually..."
"I don't usually what?"
"Trust me with important stuff," Misty finished quietly. "People don't usually give me real responsibility unless they're setting me up to fail."
The words hit Natalie harder than she'd expected. All those times she'd dismissed Misty, all the casual cruelties and cutting remarks. Treating her like an annoyance instead of a person.
"I'm not setting you up to fail," she said, her voice softer than usual. "I wouldn't risk all our lives on some joke, Misty. You're the right person for this."
The smile that spread across Misty's face was like watching the sun come up, transforming her whole appearance. For a moment, she looked almost beautiful—not in any conventional way, but in the way of someone who'd finally found their place and was being recognized for it.
∇ ∇ ∇
Their first training session happened in the clearing behind the cabin, using empty cans as makeshift targets. Natalie perched on a rickety stool, her injured arm cradled in its sling, while Misty stood beside her holding the lever-action rifle like it was made of glass.
"Jesus, it's heavier than I thought," Misty said, adjusting her grip.
"You'll get used to it," Natalie replied. "That weight actually helps once you learn to work with it instead of against it. Now, feet shoulder-width apart. Yeah, like that. Bring the rifle up to your shoulder—the good shoulder, obviously—and line up the sights."
Misty followed the instructions, her movements careful and deliberate. Natalie watched, noting how Misty's hands trembled slightly from the unfamiliar weight and pressure.
"Breathe normally," Natalie coached. "Don't hold your breath. Find that natural pause between exhaling and inhaling—that's when you squeeze the trigger. Gentle pressure, like you're trying not to wake someone up."
Misty nodded, her eye pressed to the sight. She held position for nearly a minute, adjusting and readjusting before finally firing. The shot went wide, missing the can by several feet.
"Shit," Misty muttered, lowering the rifle.
"That wasn't bad for a first shot," Natalie said honestly. "You jerked the trigger though, pulled the whole rifle off target. Try again, but this time, squeeze straight back. Just use the tip of your finger."
They spent the next hour working through basics—stance, breathing, trigger control, sight alignment. Misty absorbed every correction with intense focus, her shots gradually improving from wildly off-target to consistently near the cans.
"You're getting it," Natalie said after Misty managed to graze a can's edge. "The key is making every shot feel exactly the same. Same stance, same breathing, same trigger pull."
Misty practically glowed at the praise. "It's more complicated than I realized. So many variables to account for."
"I thought you liked that," Natalie replied. "Variables, figuring out systems."
It was true. Natalie could see Misty's analytical mind working, cataloging each element of the shooting process, looking for patterns and connections. Where other people might get frustrated by the complexity, Misty seemed energized by it.
Over the next few days, they gradually moved from stationary targets to trickier scenarios. Natalie taught Misty to read wind patterns, compensate for distance, identify the best shooting positions. Despite her injury limiting her to instruction rather than demonstration, Natalie found herself enjoying the teaching more than she'd expected.
Misty was attentive, asking thoughtful questions and practicing with dedication that bordered on obsession. When their formal training sessions ended, Natalie often spotted Misty through her window, still outside in the gathering dusk, dry-firing the unloaded rifle, rehearsing her stance and trigger pull until it was too dark to see.
On the fourth day, Natalie declared Misty ready for her first real hunt.
"You sure?" Misty asked, checking and rechecking the rifle's action. "Maybe I should practice more with the targets."
"You can hit those cans consistently now," Natalie replied, struggling one-handed with her jacket. "Only way to learn to hunt is to actually hunt. Real animals don't stand still like cans do."
They set out early, Natalie providing navigation and guidance while Misty carried the rifle. Despite her injury, Natalie insisted on coming along for these early hunts, claiming she needed to assess Misty's progress. Truth was more complicated—she wasn't ready to give up control completely, wasn't ready to sit helplessly in the cabin while someone else took responsibility for keeping them all alive.
The first animal they encountered was a rabbit, sitting motionless near a fallen log. Natalie nudged Misty and pointed, whispering instructions about wind direction and shot placement. Misty raised the rifle, her movements now smooth and practiced, and took careful aim.
The shot echoed through the forest. The rabbit dropped immediately, killed instantly by a clean head shot.
"I did it!" Misty exclaimed, her voice bubbling with excitement. "I actually fucking did it!"
She turned toward Natalie with such joy, such pure pride, that Natalie felt something warm unfurl in her chest. Before she could react, Misty had rushed forward and wrapped her in an enthusiastic embrace.
Natalie stiffened immediately, her body going rigid at the unexpected contact. "Okay, okay," she said quickly, pushing Misty away with her good arm. "Not a hugger. Got it."
Misty's face flushed with embarrassment, but her smile remained. "Sorry! I just got excited." she repeated, understanding dawning in her voice.
Despite her discomfort with physical contact, Natalie found herself smiling slightly at Misty's enthusiasm. The rabbit wasn't much, but it was proof that her faith in Misty hadn't been misplaced.
Over the next few days, Misty's success rate improved steadily. She bagged two more rabbits, a squirrel, and even managed to take down a grouse with a difficult shot through thick underbrush. Each success built her confidence, and Natalie watched with mixed pride and growing unease as Misty transformed from nervous student to competent hunter.
The unease wasn't about Misty's abilities—those were obvious enough. It was something else entirely, something Natalie didn't want to examine too closely. The way Misty's face lit up when she made a clean kill. The methodical precision with which she field-dressed their catches. The quiet satisfaction she took in providing for the group.
There was an intensity to Misty's focus that reminded Natalie of something, though she couldn't quite place what. It was in the way Misty's eyes sharpened behind her glasses when she lined up a shot, the subtle smile that played at her lips when she succeeded. It was both unsettling and oddly compelling.
After a week of successful small game hunting, they encountered something bigger.
Natalie spotted it first—the same deer she'd been tracking when she fell, recognizable by the distinctive notch in its left ear. It was grazing in a small clearing, completely unaware of their presence.
"There," she whispered, pointing carefully. "That's the one. The buck I've been tracking for weeks."
Misty's eyes widened as she took in the size of the animal. It was larger than anything they'd attempted so far, substantial enough to feed the entire group for days.
"It's so big," she breathed. "Where should I aim?"
"Heart-lung shot," Natalie instructed, her voice barely audible. "Right behind the front shoulder. Wait for it to give you a broadside view. And Misty, this is important—make sure of your shot. We might not get another chance at something this big."
Misty nodded, raising the rifle with steady hands. The deer continued to graze, occasionally lifting its head to scan for danger before returning to the sparse vegetation. They waited, hearts pounding in unison, for the perfect moment.
Finally, the buck turned, presenting a clear shot at its vital area. Misty's finger found the trigger, her breathing controlled and even. Natalie held her breath, watching.
The rifle cracked. The deer startled, stumbled, then bolted into the trees, very much alive.
For a moment, Natalie just stared in disbelief. A clean miss. After all that tracking, all that training, Misty had missed a perfect shot.
Something inside Natalie snapped.
"What the fuck was that?" The words exploded out of her before she could stop them, her voice raw with frustration and disbelief.
Misty lowered the rifle, her face going pale. "I... I thought I had it. I was sure..."
"You were sure?" Natalie's voice rose to a shout, all her pent-up frustration and fear pouring out in a torrent of rage. "That was our best chance! That deer could have fed us for a week, and you just let it walk away!"
"I'm sorry," Misty stammered, tears beginning to form behind her glasses. "I don't know what happened. The shot felt right, but..."
"But nothing!" Natalie screamed, taking a step closer despite the pain it caused her shoulder. "This isn't a fucking game, Misty! People are starving! We're all counting on you, and you can't even hit a stationary target!"
Misty flinched as if she'd been slapped, her small frame seeming to shrink under the weight of Natalie's fury. "I know, I know. I'll do better next time, I promise..."
"Next time?" Natalie laughed bitterly. "What makes you think there'll be a next time? That deer is spooked now. It'll be days before we see it again, if we ever do."
The tears were flowing freely down Misty's cheeks now, her glasses fogging up. She looked so small, so broken, that a part of Natalie wanted to take back her words. But the larger part, the part consumed by pain and fear and the crushing weight of responsibility she couldn't shoulder anymore, couldn't stop.
"Maybe they were right," she continued, her voice cruel and cutting. "Maybe I made a mistake choosing you. Maybe you're just not cut out for this."
The words hit their mark. Misty's face crumpled, and she let out a small, wounded sound that was barely human. She looked at Natalie with such hurt, such betrayal, that it was like looking into a mirror of her own pain.
But Natalie couldn't face it. Couldn't bear to see the reflection of her own failure in Misty's eyes. Without another word, she turned and stalked away, leaving Misty alone in the forest with her tears and her shame.
The walk back to the cabin was a blur of anger and regret. With each step, Natalie's rage began to cool, replaced by a growing sense of guilt. She'd been cruel, unnecessarily so. Misty was trying her best, and everyone missed shots sometimes. Even Natalie had missed her share over the years.
But the damage was done. By the time she reached the cabin, Natalie's anger had transformed into something darker—a deep, aching depression that settled over her like a heavy blanket. She went straight to her small room, ignoring the concerned questions from the others, and lay down on her makeshift bed, staring at the ceiling.
∇ ∇ ∇
Misty didn't come back to the cabin until well after dark. When she finally showed up, her eyes were red-rimmed and her clothes damp with melted snow. She moved quietly, avoiding eye contact with everyone, including Natalie who watched from her doorway.
The next morning, when Misty knocked softly on her door, Natalie pretended to be asleep.
"Nat? Are you not coming?" Misty's voice was small, hesitant.
Natalie opened her eyes, staring at the wall. "You can go," she said finally, her voice flat. "Just... be careful out there."
She heard Misty's sharp intake of breath, sensed her lingering in the doorway for a long moment before footsteps retreated. Through her small window, Natalie watched Misty leave alone, rifle slung over her shoulder, moving with none of the confidence she'd built up over the past week.
Natalie spent the day in bed, claiming she was in too much pain to move. It wasn't entirely a lie—her shoulder did ache, and moving around made it worse. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional weight pressing down on her chest.
This is what useless feels like,
she thought, listening to the sounds of the others going about their daily tasks.
This is what it's like to need instead of being needed.
When evening came and Misty returned, empty-handed but unharmed, Natalie felt a confusing mix of relief and disappointment. Relief that Misty was safe, disappointment that there would be another night of meager rations.
Misty appeared in her doorway again, this time carrying a small bowl of thin soup.
"I brought you something to eat," she said quietly, setting the bowl on the small table beside Natalie's bed.
Natalie didn't respond, didn't even look at her. But she noticed that Misty lingered, and when she risked a glance, she saw genuine concern in Misty's eyes despite everything that had happened.
"Nat? Are you okay? Your shoulder isn't getting infected, is it? Because I have some antibiotics left, and..."
"I'm fine," Natalie cut her off, her voice sharp. "Just tired."
Misty nodded and left, but not before Natalie caught the flash of hurt that crossed her face.
This pattern continued for three more days. Misty would venture out alone each morning, coming back in the evening with increasingly elaborate stories about her hunting adventures. A close encounter with a black bear, a family of foxes that seemed almost tame, tracking signs of what might have been a moose. She told these stories to the group around the fire, her voice animated and cheerful, clearly trying to keep morale up despite her lack of success.
Natalie listened from her room, and despite herself, found the corners of her mouth twitching at some of Misty's more colorful descriptions. There was something endearing about the way Misty tried to make her failures sound like adventures, how she focused on the wonder and beauty of the forest rather than dwelling on empty traps and missed opportunities.
On the fourth morning, Misty didn't come to check on her. Natalie found herself straining to hear the sounds of preparation, of Misty getting ready to leave. When she heard the front door close, she got up and went to her window, watching as Misty disappeared into the trees.
She looked smaller somehow, more fragile. The confidence she'd been building was gone, replaced by a resigned determination that was somehow worse than defeat.
Natalie spent the day pacing her small room, her shoulder protesting the movement but her restlessness too strong to ignore. She found herself at the window repeatedly, scanning the tree line for any sign of Misty's return.
When evening came and went without Misty's return, genuine worry began to set in. The others were concerned too—Natalie could hear their hushed conversations in the main room, debates about whether to organize a search party.
"She should have been back by now," Van was saying. "What if something happened to her?"
"She knows these woods better than most of us," Taissa replied, but there was uncertainty in her voice. "She'll be fine."
Natalie was about to abandon her self-imposed isolation and join the discussion when she heard it—footsteps approaching the cabin, slow and measured. Through her window, she saw Misty emerge from the forest, and Natalie's breath caught in her throat.
Misty was covered in blood.
Not her own blood, Natalie realized with relief as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Misty was dragging something behind her, something large and heavy that she'd managed to fashion into a crude travois using branches and rope.
It was the deer. The same buck with the notched ear that Misty had missed days ago. And it was definitely, unmistakably dead.
The front door burst open as the others rushed out to help Misty, their voices a mixture of shock, excitement, and concern. Natalie pressed her face to the window, trying to get a better look.
Misty stood in the center of the group, breathing heavily, her glasses spattered with blood and her usually neat hair wild and tangled. But there was something different about her posture, her expression. A quiet satisfaction, a sense of completion that Natalie had never seen before.
"Holy shit, Misty!" Mari's voice carried clearly through the night air. "How did you manage this?"
Misty's response was too quiet for Natalie to hear, but she saw her gesture toward the deer, saw her wipe blood from her glasses with the back of her sleeve. Even from a distance, Natalie could see the change in how the others looked at her—with respect, admiration, gratitude.
For the first time since her injury, Natalie felt something other than depression and self-pity. She felt... proud. Proud of Misty, proud of her own decision to trust her with this responsibility. And underneath that pride was something else, something that made her chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with physical pain.
She watched as the group worked together to process the deer, with Misty directing the butchering process with the same clinical precision she brought to medical procedures. There would be fresh meat tonight, and for many nights to come. Misty had succeeded where Natalie had failed, had brought down the same animal that had eluded Natalie's experienced hands.
Later that night, after the celebration had died down and the others had gone to sleep with full bellies for the first time in weeks, Natalie heard soft footsteps approaching her room. She pretended to be asleep as Misty's silhouette appeared in her doorway.
"Nat?" Misty whispered. "Are you awake?"
Natalie didn't respond, but she heard Misty enter the room anyway, moving quietly to the small table where she set down what sounded like a bowl or plate.
"I saved you some of the good cuts," Misty said softly. "The tenderloin and some of the backstrap. I thought you might be hungry."
Natalie remained motionless, listening as Misty moved around the room, straightening things, adjusting her blankets. The care in these small gestures was overwhelming, made worse by the knowledge that Natalie had been nothing but cruel to her.
"I wanted you to know," Misty continued, her voice barely audible, "that what you said... about choosing me... it meant everything. Even after what happened, even when I missed that shot, you still believed in me. No one's ever done that before."
There was a pause, and Natalie heard Misty take a shaky breath.
"I know you're disappointed in me. I know I let you down. But I got him, Nat. I got the deer. It took me three days, but I tracked him down and I got him."
Another pause, longer this time.
"I used the hatchet to finish him," Misty said, and there was something strange in her voice now, something Natalie couldn't quite identify. "The shot wasn't clean, hit him in the shoulder, but he didn't go down. I had to track him for hours, following the blood trail. When I finally caught up to him, he was suffering. So I used the aircraft axe. One clean strike, right behind the head. Just like I learned when..."
She trailed off, but Natalie knew what she meant. Just like when she'd amputated Coach Ben's leg. The same clinical precision, the same willingness to do what needed to be done no matter how brutal.
"The blood got all over me," Misty continued, and now Natalie could hear a smile in her voice. "For a moment, standing there with the axe in my hands and the deer finally still, I felt... I don't know how to describe it. Powerful, maybe? Like I'd proven something important."
Natalie's eyes snapped open in the darkness. There it was—the thing she'd been sensing but couldn't name. That intensity, that satisfaction in violence successfully applied. It was the same look she'd seen on Misty's face after the amputation, the same expression that had both terrified and fascinated her.
"Anyway," Misty said, her voice returning to its usual soft cadence, "I should let you rest. But Nat? Thank you. For giving me the chance to prove myself."
Footsteps retreated toward the door, pausing in the threshold.
"I hope tomorrow you might feel well enough to come hunting with me again. I wish you had been there."
And then she was gone, leaving Natalie alone with her racing thoughts and the scent of fresh venison that made her mouth water despite everything.
∇ ∇ ∇
The next morning, Natalie stepped out of her makeshift prison. She found Misty in the main room, carefully cleaning the rifle, her movements now second nature. The blood was gone from her clothes and glasses, but something had changed in her—a quiet confidence that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than just hunting success.
"Morning," Natalie said, her voice rusty from barely speaking for days.
Misty looked up, her face lighting up like someone had just plugged her in. "Natalie! How are you feeling? Is your shoulder better?"
"It's manageable," Natalie replied, testing her range of motion. The sharp pain had dulled to more of a persistent reminder. "I was thinking... maybe I could come with you today. If you want the company."
Misty's smile could have powered the whole fucking cabin. "I'd love that. I was planning to check the eastern ridge—I found some promising tracks yesterday."
They headed out after breakfast—real breakfast, with actual meat for the first time in forever. The protein hit Natalie's system like a drug, giving her energy she'd forgotten existed. Despite her busted shoulder, she managed to keep up with Misty as they made their way through the trees.
The whole dynamic between them felt different now. Misty moved with this new authority, reading the forest like she'd been doing it her whole life, while Natalie found herself following instead of leading. It was weird as hell, but not... unpleasant.
"The tracks go this way," Misty said, pointing to marks in the snow that Natalie had to squint to see. "Looks like a family group—mother and maybe two juveniles."
Natalie studied what Misty was pointing at, genuinely impressed. The girl's tracking skills had jumped levels while Natalie was having her pity party.
"You're getting good at this," she said.
Misty went pink around the ears. "I've been practicing. Spending extra time out here, studying the patterns, learning to read what they're telling me. It's fascinating, actually—the way animals move through their environment, the stories their tracks tell."
They followed the trail for nearly an hour, moving quietly through the underbrush. Natalie found herself watching Misty as much as their surroundings, noting how completely her student had absorbed everything she'd been taught.
There was something almost mesmerizing about watching Misty work—the way she focused so completely, the methodical way she analyzed every sign. It reminded Natalie of watching her patch people up, that same clinical precision applied to something entirely different.
They found the deer in a small clearing—three of them, just like Misty had called it. The mother stood alert, head up and ears twitching, while two younger deer grazed nearby.
"Which one?" Misty whispered, already bringing up the rifle.
"The mother," Natalie replied without hesitation. "Biggest target, and the juveniles probably won't make it without her anyway."
It was brutal math, but this place didn't leave room for sentiment.
Misty nodded, lining up her shot with hands that didn't shake anymore. None of the nerves from their previous hunt, none of the uncertainty that had led to that miss. She was completely focused, completely in control.
The rifle cracked. The doe dropped like someone had cut her strings, killed instantly by a perfect heart shot. The juveniles bounded away into the forest, startled but alive.
"Excellent shot," Natalie said, and meant every word.
Misty lowered the rifle, her face glowing. "It felt different this time. More... certain. Like I knew exactly where the bullet would go before I pulled the trigger."
"That's confidence," Natalie replied. "You've found your rhythm."
They worked together to field-dress the deer, Misty's movements sure and efficient. Natalie watched her hands—steady, precise, unbothered by the blood and gore that would have made some people queasy. There was something beautiful about her competence, something that made Natalie's chest do this weird tight thing she didn't want to examine too closely.
As Misty made the final cuts to separate the hide from the carcass, a drop of blood splattered across her cheek. She didn't seem to notice, too focused on her work, but Natalie found her eyes drawn to that single red drop against Misty's pale skin.
She's beautiful,
Natalie thought suddenly, the realization hitting her like getting punched in the gut.
When the hell did that happen? When did Misty Quigley become beautiful?
The thought was disturbing—not because of any issue with Misty herself, but because of what it meant about Natalie's headspace. She was injured, isolated, dependent on others for the first time in her life. It would be natural to develop confused feelings for her caretaker, to mistake gratitude for something else.
But watching Misty work, watching her confident movements and that satisfied smile playing at her lips, Natalie knew it wasn't just gratitude she was feeling.
"There," Misty said, sitting back on her heels. "All ready to transport."
She looked up at Natalie, and their eyes met across the butchered deer. For a moment, neither of them spoke. There was something in Misty's gaze—an intensity that went beyond professional satisfaction, beyond the simple pleasure of a job well done.
Natalie felt heat creep up her neck and looked away quickly. "We should head back. It'll be dark soon."
The walk back was quiet, both of them lost in their own heads. The deer was smaller than the buck Misty had taken down solo, but it still meant plenty of meat. They'd eat well tonight, and for several nights after.
As they got close to the cabin, Natalie found herself dragging her feet. These hours alone with Misty, working together toward the same goal, had been the most peaceful she'd felt since her injury. Maybe since the crash itself.
"Nat?" Misty's voice was hesitant as they paused at the edge of the clearing.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For coming with me today. For... for not giving up on me after I screwed up that shot."
Natalie looked at her, really looked at her. Misty's face was flushed from the cold and exertion, her glasses slightly fogged, hair escaping from beneath her knit cap. There was a smudge of dirt on her chin and that drop of blood still on her cheek, but her expression was open and vulnerable in a way that made Natalie's breath catch.
"You didn't screw up," Natalie said finally. "You learned. There's a difference."
Misty's smile was worth every moment of doubt and frustration.
∇ ∇ ∇
Over the weeks that followed, they fell into a routine that felt surprisingly natural. Most days, Natalie was strong enough to go with Misty on her hunts, acting as guide and spotter while Misty handled the shooting. Her shoulder was healing steadily, though she still couldn't handle the rifle's kick without risking setbacks.
Misty's skills continued developing at a pace that honestly impressed the hell out of Natalie. She bagged small game with growing consistency. Each success built her confidence, and with confidence came changes in her whole demeanor.
The nervous energy that had always been Misty's trademark began shifting into something more focused, more purposeful. She carried herself differently now, with the quiet authority that came from knowing she was essential, valued, needed.
Natalie caught herself watching Misty more and more, studying the changes in her posture, her expressions, the way she spoke. There was something magnetic about confidence on someone who'd never had it before. It was like watching a butterfly emerge from its cocoon—beautiful and slightly unreal.
On days when Natalie's shoulder was too painful for extended hiking, she'd watch from her window as Misty headed out alone, rifle slung over her shoulder with casual familiarity. The sight always produced this complicated mix of emotions—pride, worry, and something else that Natalie was getting less and less able to ignore.
One evening, as they sat by the fire sharing a meal of fresh rabbit, Misty launched into one of her detailed accounts of the day's hunt. She'd been tracking what she believed to be a large animal, possibly a moose, based on the size and depth of the tracks.
"The prints were enormous," she was saying, her hands moving animatedly as she described her findings. "Much larger than anything we've seen before. And the spacing between them suggests an animal with a really long stride."
Natalie listened with half her attention, the rest focused on how the firelight played across Misty's features, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw and the animated spark in her eyes. When had she started noticing shit like that? When had Misty Quigley's jawline become something worth contemplating?
"I found where it had been browsing on some young saplings," Misty continued. "The branches were stripped at a height that would be impossible for a deer to reach. I'm thinking moose, definitely. Maybe even a bull."
"That would be quite a prize," Van commented from across the fire. "How much meat would something like that provide?"
Misty's eyes lit up as she calculated. "A full-grown bull moose could weigh anywhere from 380 to 720 kilograms. Even after processing, we'd be looking at maybe 200 to 300 kilograms of meat. Enough to last us months if we could preserve it properly."
The group went quiet, all of them imagining that kind of abundance after so many weeks of scraping by. The idea of months of food security was almost too good to be real.
"Of course," Misty added, adjusting her glasses, "taking down something that size would be challenging. Moose can be aggressive, especially during mating season. And a wounded moose is extremely dangerous."
"Could you do it?" Shauna asked. "If you found one?"
Misty considered the question seriously. "Maybe. With proper shot placement and a bit of luck. The key would be putting it down with the first shot—anything less than an immediate kill would be catastrophic."
Another pause, longer this time.
Natalie found herself studying Misty's profile as she spoke, noting the confident way she discussed the technical challenges of bringing down large game. There was no doubt in her voice, no false bravado. Just calm assessment of risks and possibilities.
She really could do it.
Natalie realized.
After the others had gone to bed, Natalie found herself unable to sleep. Her mind kept circling back to Misty's description of the moose tracks, the possibility of such a significant kill. But underneath that practical concern was something else—a growing fascination with the woman Misty was becoming.
She'd always been attracted to competence, to people who could handle themselves when things got tough. Watching Misty develop these skills, seeing her confidence grow and her capabilities expand, was affecting Natalie in ways she hadn't expected.
It wasn't just gratitude or admiration anymore. It was something deeper, more complicated. Something that made her pulse quicken when Misty smiled at her after a successful hunt, something that made her hyper-aware of every casual touch or shared glance.
The realization should have been disturbing. Instead, it felt inevitable, like something that had been building beneath the surface since the day she'd chosen Misty as her replacement.
The next morning brought news that drove all other thoughts from her mind. Misty had found fresh moose tracks leading toward the eastern ridge—large, deep impressions in soft earth that could only have been made within the last day or two.
"I want to follow them today," Misty announced over breakfast. "The trail is fresh, and the weather looks stable. This might be our best chance."
Natalie felt a surge of anxiety at the thought of Misty facing such a dangerous animal alone. "I should come with you."
"Your shoulder..." Misty began.
"Is fine," Natalie cut her off. "Well enough for hiking, anyway. You'll need a spotter for something this big."
Misty nodded, looking relieved. Despite her growing confidence, she was still cautious enough to welcome backup on challenging hunts.
They set out early, following the massive tracks through increasingly dense forest. The moose had been browsing as it traveled, stripping bark from trees and cropping low-hanging branches. The trail of destruction was easy to follow, even for someone with Natalie's current limitations.
As they climbed higher into the mountains, the forest around them grew quieter, more ancient. Towering pines blocked most of the sky with their thick branches. It was beautiful and slightly ominous—the kind of place where predators ruled and the weak didn't survive.
"The tracks are getting fresher," Misty observed, crouching to examine a particularly clear print. "Look at how sharp the edges are. I'd guess this was made within the last few hours."
Natalie studied the track, noting the depth and clarity that indicated very recent passage. "We're close. We need to be extra careful now."
They continued more cautiously, pausing frequently to listen for sounds of movement ahead. Moose were massive animals, and despite their size, they could move through the forest with surprising stealth.
It was Natalie who spotted it first—a flash of brown movement through the trees, barely visible in the dappled light. She grabbed Misty's arm, pointing silently toward the massive shape.
The moose stood in a small clearing perhaps fifty yards ahead, its enormous antlers catching occasional shafts of sunlight. It was even larger than they had imagined—a bull in its prime with a shoulder height that had to be close to two meters.
Misty raised the rifle, her movements slow and controlled. This was the shot of a lifetime—enough meat to transform their situation from survival to relative abundance.
"Wait for the perfect angle," Natalie breathed. "Heart-lung shot, just like we practiced."
The moose continued to browse, unaware of their presence. Its massive head swung from side to side as it searched for tender shoots, occasionally presenting clear shots at its vital area.
Misty's finger found the trigger. Her breathing was steady, controlled. Everything about her posture radiated confidence and preparation.
The rifle cracked, the sound echoing through the forest like thunder.
The moose stumbled, blood immediately visible on its side, but it didn't fall. Instead, it let out a sound—part bellow, part shriek—that chilled Natalie to the bone. The animal was wounded but far from dead, and now it was pissed.
"Shit," Misty hissed, working the rifle's action to chamber another round.
The moose turned toward them, its eyes rolling white with pain and rage. A wounded animal this size was incredibly dangerous, capable of trampling or goring them with ease.
Misty fired again, but the moose was moving now, crashing through the underbrush toward them. The second shot hit somewhere in the shoulder, doing damage but not enough to drop the massive animal.
"Move!" Natalie shouted, grabbing Misty's arm and pulling her behind a large tree.
The moose thundered past them, leaving a trail of blood and broken branches in its wake. They could hear it crashing through the forest, its movements growing weaker but still dangerously powerful.
"We have to follow it," Misty said, her voice tight with determination. "It's wounded and suffering. We can't just let it die slowly."
Natalie wanted to argue, to suggest they wait for the animal to bleed out, but she could see the resolve in Misty's eyes. This wasn't just about the meat anymore—it was about finishing what she'd started, about not leaving a job half-done.
"Okay," she agreed. "But we go slow. A wounded moose is the most dangerous thing in these woods."
They followed the blood trail through the forest, moving carefully from tree to tree. The moose had left an easy path to follow—broken branches, gouged earth, and drops of bright red blood marking its passage. The trail led downhill, toward a small stream where the animal had apparently stopped to drink or perhaps try to cool its wounds.
They found it there, standing knee-deep in the shallow water, its massive head hanging low. Blood stained the stream around its legs, and its breathing was labored, visible in the cold air as great puffs of steam.
"One more shot should do it," Misty whispered, raising the rifle.
But as she lined up the sight, the moose seemed to sense their presence. Its head came up, eyes rolling, and it let out another of those chilling sounds—half bellow, half scream. It was dying, but it wasn't going quietly.
Misty fired, and this time the shot found its mark. The moose swayed for a moment, then toppled sideways into the stream with a tremendous splash. The water ran red around its massive form.
But it was still moving, still struggling weakly against the rocks and rushing water. The shot had been good, but not quite good enough for an instant kill.
Without hesitation, Misty handed the rifle to Natalie and reached for the hatchet—the same aircraft crash axe she had used to amputate Coach Ben's leg, the one she had used to finish the first deer. She waded into the bloody stream, moving with purpose toward the dying animal.
The moose raised its head one last time as Misty approached, its eyes wide with pain and exhaustion. For a moment, hunter and prey regarded each other across the short distance. Then Misty raised the axe, her movements precise and clinical, and brought it down with all her strength at the base of the moose's skull.
The impact was devastating. Blood sprayed in a wide arc, painting Misty's face and clothes in crimson. The moose convulsed once, then went still, its massive body finally at peace.
Misty stood over the fallen animal, breathing heavily, the bloody axe still in her hand. In that moment, with blood on her face and fire in her eyes, she looked like something out of a primal dream—fierce, beautiful, utterly magnificent.
The sun, filtering through the canopy above, caught the blood on her face and turned it almost luminous. She looked like a warrior goddess, like some ancient deity of the hunt. Her glasses were spattered with red, her usually neat hair wild and tangled, but there was something ethereally beautiful about the scene, something that made Natalie's breath catch in her throat.
Misty turned toward her, and their eyes met across the bloody stream. There was something in her gaze that Natalie had never seen before—a wild, primal satisfaction that went beyond mere accomplishment. Her pupils were dilated, her lips slightly parted, and there was a flush in her cheeks that had nothing to do with exertion.
Natalie felt something electric shoot through her body, a heat that started in her chest and spread outward like wildfire. She had seen Misty confident before, had watched her develop competence and skill. But this was different. This was power, raw and unrestrained.
Without conscious thought, Natalie waded into the stream toward Misty. The cold water soaked through her boots, but she barely noticed. All her attention was focused on the woman standing before her, on the blood that painted her face like war paint, on the intensity burning in her eyes.
"Misty," she breathed, reaching up to take the blood-spattered glasses from Misty's face.
Misty didn't resist as Natalie removed the glasses and set them carefully on a nearby rock. Without the barrier of the lenses, her eyes were even more intense, pupils blown wide with adrenaline and something else entirely.
Natalie cupped Misty's face in her hands, her thumbs brushing away some of the blood from her cheeks. Misty's skin was warm despite the cold air, and she leaned into the touch like a cat seeking attention.
"You're incredible," Natalie whispered, and meant it completely.
Misty's lips parted in surprise, and Natalie could see her pulse racing in the hollow of her throat. "Natalie?"
Instead of answering, Natalie leaned forward and kissed her.
The kiss was intense, desperate, tasting of blood and sweat and something indefinably wild. Misty's lips were soft and warm, and she responded with a hunger that matched Natalie's own. They kissed like people who had been dying of thirst finally finding water, like they were trying to consume each other completely.
Natalie could taste the metallic tang of blood on Misty's lips, could feel the slight tremor in her hands as they came up to tangle in Natalie's hair. It should have been revolting—the blood, the violence, the raw animal intensity of the moment. Instead, it was the most arousing thing Natalie had ever experienced.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathing heavily. Misty's eyes were wide with shock and desire, her lips swollen and stained with blood.
"Nat," she whispered, her voice hoarse.
"I know," Natalie replied, not sure what she was agreeing to, only knowing that something fundamental had shifted between them. "I know."
They stood there in the bloody stream, surrounded by the evidence of Misty's triumph, and Natalie felt as if she were seeing the world clearly for the first time in months. The fear, the depression, the sense of uselessness that had consumed her since her injury—all of it seemed distant now, overwhelmed by this new understanding of what she wanted, who she wanted.
Misty reached up tentatively, her fingers tracing the line of Natalie's jaw. "Is this real?" she asked, her voice small and uncertain.
Natalie caught Misty's hand and pressed it more firmly against her face. "It's real."
They kissed again, slower this time but no less intense. Natalie could feel Misty's heartbeat against her chest, could taste the lingering copper of blood mixed with something that was uniquely Misty. When they parted, Natalie noticed there was blood on her own lips now, transferred from Misty's.
The sight of it in Misty's eyes—dark and dilated with want—sent another surge of heat through Natalie's body.
"We should head back," Misty said eventually, though she made no move to step away. "The others will be worried, and we need to get this processed before it spoils."
Natalie nodded, though the practical considerations seemed almost irrelevant compared to what had just happened between them. "Yeah. We should."
They spent the next hour rigging up a more elaborate travois system to transport the massive moose. It was exhausting work, made more complicated by the animal's size and their limited resources. But throughout the process, Natalie found herself hyperaware of every movement Misty made, every casual touch as they worked together.
As they prepared to leave the stream, Misty paused to wash some of the blood from her face and hands. Natalie watched, mesmerized by the careful way she cleaned her glasses, by the efficient movements as she restored her usual neat appearance.
But she couldn't wash away everything. Her clothes were still stained with blood, her hair still wild from their encounter. And there was something different in her posture, her expression—a confidence that bordered on predatory.
The journey back to the cabin was long and grueling, the improvised travois heavy and unwieldy on the rough terrain. They had to stop frequently to adjust the rigging or navigate around obstacles. But Natalie found she didn't mind the slow pace. It gave her time to process what had happened, to try to understand the magnitude of the shift in her feelings.
She had kissed Misty Quigley. More than that, she had wanted to kiss Misty Quigley, had initiated it herself in a moment of pure instinct and desire. The shy, awkward girl who had once been nothing more than an annoyance had become someone Natalie couldn't stop thinking about, someone she was genuinely attracted to.
When had that happened? When had her gratitude for Misty's medical care transformed into something deeper? When had her admiration for Misty's developing skills become genuine desire?
Maybe it had started that first night, when she'd woken to find Misty watching her sleep. The intensity in her gaze, the careful attention she paid to every detail—it was overwhelming in a way that was both unsettling and oddly compelling.
Or maybe it was watching Misty's confidence grow, seeing her transform from someone who was barely tolerated by the group into someone essential, someone valued. There was something deeply attractive about competence, about watching someone come into their own power.
But if she were honest with herself, the attraction had crystallized in that moment by the stream, when Misty had stood over the fallen moose with blood on her face and victory in her eyes. The raw power of it, the primal satisfaction, had struck something deep in Natalie that she hadn't known existed.
As they neared the cabin, Natalie realized she was nervous about facing the others. Would they be able to tell that something had changed? Would it be obvious from their faces, their body language, that they had crossed a line from which there was no return?
Just before they reached the clearing, Misty stopped walking. She turned to face Natalie, her expression serious.
"Nat? What happens now?"
It was a simple question with no simple answer. They were living in an impossible situation, where normal rules and expectations had been suspended by the brutal demands of survival. What would happen when—if—they were ever rescued? Would this connection survive in the real world, or was it just a product of their shared trauma and isolation?
"I don't know," Natalie answered honestly. "But I know I don't regret it."
Misty smiled, and it was like watching the sun break through clouds. "I don't regret it either."
They resumed walking, and soon the cabin came into view. Natalie could see figures moving around outside, probably drawn by the sound of their approach. The others would be amazed by the size of their kill, grateful for the abundant meat it represented.
But as they entered the clearing, Natalie found herself noticing something she had missed before. Misty stopped just short of the group, reaching up to touch Natalie's face gently.
"You have something..." she said softly, her eyes warm with affection and something else that made Natalie's pulse quicken.
"Here, let me..." Misty continued, and without hesitation, she grabbed the bottom hem of her own shirt and lifted it to wipe away what Natalie realized must be blood from her own face.
The movement caused Misty's shirt to ride up, exposing a strip of pale skin above her waistband. It was just a glimpse, nothing that would normally be considered provocative, but in their current state of heightened awareness, it felt intensely intimate.
Natalie's eyes were drawn to that exposed skin despite herself, noting the gentle curve of Misty's waist, the soft line of her hip. When she looked up, she found Misty watching her with dilated pupils and a faint flush in her cheeks.
They stared at each other for a moment, the air between them charged with unspoken desire. Then Misty's shirt fell back into place, and the spell was broken.
"Better?" Misty asked, her voice slightly breathless.
Natalie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The brief glimpse of skin, the intimate gesture of Misty cleaning her face with her own clothing—it was almost more affecting than their passionate kiss by the stream.
The others reached them then, their voices raised in excitement and disbelief as they took in the size of the moose. Natalie let herself be swept up in their celebration, accepting congratulations and answering questions about the hunt. But part of her attention remained focused on Misty, on the small, secret smiles they shared across the crowd.
As the group worked together to process the massive animal, Natalie found herself watching Misty interact with the others. There was a new quality to the way they treated her—respect, gratitude, genuine appreciation for her contribution. She was no longer the odd girl they tolerated out of necessity. She was one of them, valued and essential.
Watching Misty finally receive the recognition she had always craved filled Natalie with a deep sense of satisfaction.
But beyond that satisfaction was something else entirely. Watching Misty laugh with Van about some technical aspect of the butchering process, seeing her patiently explain field-dressing techniques to Mari, Natalie felt a warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with pride or gratitude.
She was happy for Misty, genuinely happy in a way that surprised her with its intensity. And underneath that happiness was the growing certainty that what had happened between them by the stream was not an aberration, not a moment of temporary madness brought on by adrenaline and blood.
It was the beginning of something real, something that might survive even in this impossible place. Something that was entirely theirs, built from shared danger and mutual trust and a connection that neither of them fully understood but both were willing to explore.
As the sun set behind the trees and the celebration continued around them, Natalie allowed herself to imagine a future where she and Misty might have the chance to discover what they could become together. It was a fragile hope, threatened by the brutal realities of their situation, but it was hope nonetheless.
And in the depths of the wilderness, surrounded by the evidence of Misty's triumph and the warmth of their shared secret, hope felt like enough.