The Last Rain

The staff cabin smelled of pine needles and old kerosene. It was a square room of peeling white paint, dominated by a single metal-frame bed with a thin mattress and a window that rattled in its frame every time the wind shifted. A digital clock on the nightstand glowed a steady, indifferent red: 10:15 PM. Outside, the rain hammered the cedar shingles with the rhythmic insistence of a drum solo, the last two days of the season dissolving into the Pacific fog.

I sat on the edge of the bed, peeling off damp wool socks one by one. My tent had collapsed under the weight of the downpour, a structural failure I had predicted in my head but failed to prevent in reality. The gap between knowing things and doing them was wide enough to swim across, and currently, I was shivering in the middle of it.

The lock tumbled. The door opened with a stiff groan, bringing a gust of wet air and Silas with it. He was a broad-shouldered man in his forties, wearing a flannel shirt that clung to his chest and dark trousers rolled above his boots. He didn't look at me. He looked at the floor, shaking water from his sleeves with a practiced, irritated motion, then dropped a heavy, moth-eaten wool blanket at my feet. His hands were large, knuckles scarred from chains and rope, trembling slightly from the cold. He turned to leave without a word, the picture of a man who preferred the company of trees to people.