Flames of the Forgotten

Chapter Thirteen

I make my way back to my camp, my now cleaned-out stock pot in hand. The weather has grown chilly, so I tighten my coat as I walk.

It's been nearly a week since the altercation with the wolves. Jackson only stayed with me that first night, but he's here twice every day. Once every morning with water or sometimes food and again in the evening to bring back whatever he hunted.

He has insisted I rest, but cabin fever is real, and I was going stir-crazy today. Knowing he is out west harvesting, I went to the creek and gave myself a quick sponge bath. Then I just sat and looked at the water for some time. The change of scenery felt nice. 

As I walk into the clearing to my camp, I see Jackson has just arrived from the west lowlands. My sled is parked behind him, and I can see the kale and cranberries inside. His eyes narrow in on me looking irritated to see me up and about.

He's so confusing. He's always around helping me, but he seems more guarded than ever. The little chats we started having are now clipped short conversations, usually about food or hunting. I don't understand what I did wrong. Why does it matter so much why I'm here?

"You're supposed to be in bed," Jackson says in a low tone.

"I am supposed to be wherever I want," I snap. "You're not my keeper."

"You're hurt. You need to take it easy."

"How old are you, Jack?"

"It's Jackson," he corrects me. "And what does it matter?"

"Just humor me."

"I'll be twenty this summer," he mumbles.

"That means you're not old enough to be my dad, so quit trying," I say with an eye-roll.

"What I am trying to do is keep a damn teenager I didn't ask for alive."

There it is, the reason he's annoyed. I'm a burden that he did not ask for. It stings, but I remain impassive, refusing to let him see the hurt.

"Like you're not a teenager, too," I scoff. "I might have just turned eighteen, but you have no idea how fast I had to grow up."

"Not as fast as I did," he mutters.

My gaze softens as I study his face, and he looks away.  As he moves towards the fire pit, I notice a catch hanging from his bag. We always cook and eat outside, and when we finish, Jackson leaves. Today's catch is a squirrel, and I frown at it.

I've taken to watching squirrels for amusement, and eating one feels so wrong, but it's meat, and I am too hungry to turn down anything I can eat.

"What do you mean you just turned eighteen?" Jackson asks as he starts pulling his knives out of his bag. 

"I think it was my birthday earlier this week. I don't know the exact date anymore, but it's on October fourth, and I am guessing that date passed us this week."

"I mark weeks in a tree at a camp, and it is the first week in October," Jackson confirms. "Um, Happy birthday, Sam."

"Thanks. Guess it doesn't matter out here."

He looks up at me, but the sound of a squirrel making a high-pitched noise as it hops from tree to tree above us interrupts the moment.

"He's pissed that we're cooking his friend," I joke.

A small smile curls over Jackson's lips as he begins skinning the squirrel. I turn away, busying myself with getting the fire going. We don't bother with a stew tonight. Instead, Jackson roasts the squirrel over the fire along with the rest of my crab apples, which are close to going bad.