Taking Cover. Ch. 1-5

This is a first draft of what started as an exercise.



ONE

The rain leaves streaks on the window next to my table at the local Chinese restaurant. As I watch, it reminds me how lonely I am and just how long it’s been since Marc disappeared. Long enough to be considered a widow. I place a few bills on the table to cover the cost of my meal and a tip for the waitress, then reach for the fortune cookie next to my glass of coke. I crack it open and pop half of the crispy vanilla treat into my mouth before reading the words on the slip of paper poking out of the other half. I have to make myself read it over a few times to be sure, but the letters in front of my eyes are plain,
-You are in terrible danger. Leave now. Run as far as you can.
This must be some sort of sick joke. I drop the paper and the remainder of the cookie on the table, grab my purse and head into the rain. I am going home. There is nothing to worry about. It was just a stupid prank by some bored factory worker, and I am not falling for it. I’ve had long day of being hung up on in my attempt to pay bills by working as a telemarketer and I just want to escape the world with a few episodes of my favorite show. But the rain is pounding on my back now, and I almost miss the sound of footsteps splashing on the wet sidewalk behind me. The fortune cookie pops back into my mind and a sinking feeling settles in my stomach. I want to laugh at myself for being so naïve, but I know that I can’t. So, as I turn the corner, I risk a quick glance behind me. I can’t tell if the person behind me is a man or a woman through the raincoat and hat they are wearing, but they are stooped over a bit. It’s probably just an older person from the down the street, nothing to worry about.
By the time I see my duplex, the sound of the footsteps is merely an annoyance. I pick up my pace and rush to my front door anyway, if only to get out of the rain. I dodge inside the door and quickly lock it behind me. Now I’m just ashamed of myself for letting a stupid fortune cookie get to me. I towel off and go to bed without a second thought.

I am startled awake by a rough hand covering my mouth while another is shaking my shoulder. I feel my heart jump into my throat and my eyes widen in terror as the shadowed bulk of a man who woke me speaks in a an anxious whisper, “I told you to run damn it. Now listen close. They’ll be here any minute. Do not scream when I move my hand away, just take the bag at the foot of the bed and follow me.”
Terrified, I nod my head vigorously. He releases me and pulls a pistol from the waistband of his jeans as he goes to look through the blinds over my window. I sit up and slide on the fuzzy red slippers I keep at my bedside. I look to the foot of the bed for the bag he mentioned, but instead of grabbing it, I look back at the man and ask, “Who are you? How did you get in my house?”
What an idiotic question. He broke in, obviously. I half expect the man to rebuke me or threaten me, but he simply continues to look out the window as he answers, “My name is Chris and I came in through the window. Now, grab the bag and let’s go before they get here.” Not only am I terrified, but I’m beginning to get angry. I cross my legs and fold my arms against my chest. I try to calm myself and take a deep breath, “No.”
This is not what he wanted to hear. I can tell by the way his concentration falters before he turns to look at me. “Excuse me?” he asks as he settles his piercing steel grey eyes on me. His gaze is cold and demands cooperation, but it only raises the ire in me more. “No,” I repeat, “I’m not going with you.” He stands across the room from me looking slightly dumbfounded, and this gives me enough reassurance that he doesn’t intend to shoot me; not to mention he has yet to point the gun at me. I decide to take a risk when he doesn’t move to leave after several heartbeats. I pull my cellphone from under my pillow, “Look, I’m calling the cops if you don’t leave now.”
Faster than I can unlock the screen, he’s suddenly inches from me. I can smell his cologne as he snatches the phone from my hand and proceeds to grind it beneath his combat boot. Now I am pissed. I jump to me feet and stab my finger into the hard muscles of his chest. “How dare you!” I shout, “Do you realize how much that phone cost?” He’s throwing the bag over his shoulder as he responds, “They can track you with it.” He wraps his hand around my wrist and begins dragging me toward the back door when there is loud crash behind me. My front door is laying in splinters as black clad figures pour into my living room. Suddenly, my feet won’t work and I can’t feel myself breathing, even though I know that I am.
“Son of a bitch,” Chris swears before tossing me over his shoulder and running out the back door. All rational thought fled as soon as I realized that I wasn’t getting my deposit back on the duplex, so I’m flopped across muscle man’s back in total shock. Time begins to lose all meaning as the vision of dark figures flooding my living room replays in my head. Stupid fortune cookie. I may swear off Chinese food for good if I can make it at least to the dawn.

TWO

I don’t remember getting in a car, but I’m buckled in the front seat and the sun is coming up on my right. We’re going north. Why north? Where is he taking me? “Pull over,” I say in a monotone. “Can’t,” he states, “We’re on the interstate.” I run my fingers through my hair and look around, trying to figure out where I am. Unfortunately, I see only woods around, so I could be anywhere below the Appalachians. I’m not sure if I just woke up from shock or sleep; it doesn’t really matter.
“Where are you taking me?”
No response
“Hey jackass!”
Those steel grey orbs flicker toward me for an instant.
“That’s right. You,” I continue poking, “where are you taking me?”
Still no answer. Okay, we’re going to play it like that, fine. I sit quietly inching my hand toward the door handle, waiting on the car to slow. He’s going to have to use the bathroom or sleep at some point, and when he does, I’ll be ready. Hopefully. His eyes keep flitting over to look at me, like he knows what I’m doing.
“Look, tell me where you are taking me or I’m jumping out,” I say. If suspected me at all, I may as well put it there. He presses his lips together and gets a contemplative look on his face, “Somewhere safe.”
“Seriously” I ask as I wrap my fingers around the handle. I wait a few heartbeats and take a deep breath to strengthen my resolve. It’s now or never, while he’s in the outside lane. I pull the handle, ready to launch myself onto the pavement and roll into the grass. But the door doesn’t budge.
Chris is grinning as he merges into the left-hand lane. I can feel my cheeks burning with indignant rage as I slam my hands down either side of me making a loud slap as they strike the leather seat. I am making an extremely unflattering huffing noise when I notice that Chris is now laughing at me. How dare he! How dare he laugh at me! This is entirely his fault. The jerks who busted in my front door were probably after him to begin with. What the hell would anyone want with me anyway? I have to live the most boring life possible, I don’t even a cat. Great, now I’ve made myself depressed. I suppose I should just stare out the window until this asshole decides to speak to me.
By midafternoon, we are surrounded by mountains and not only am I starving, but I’ve got to pee something awful. Chris is wearing a face of deep concentration, and so far, asking questions hasn’t gotten me very far. No use beating around the bush then, so I blurt it out, “I’ve got to pee.” He says nothing and acts as if I never spoke. I say it louder; still nothing. This man is stoic beyond stubbornness, so I smack him and shout, “Hey burly kidnapper! Your prisoner needs a pot to piss in!”
“No use shouting Elizabeth. The next exit isn’t for another few miles.”
My jaw must be in the floor because this guy knows my name, my real name. “How do you know my name?” I whisper. My heart is pounding in my throat. No one should know that name. When Marc disappeared, the feds swept in and did their whole witness protection thing. Apparently Marc’s last mission overseas was big deal; he never ever told me more than “overseas.” I had no clue where he went, or for how long he was supposed to be gone.
“It doesn’t matter,” Chris replies, “We’ll have time to talk when we get to the safe house.” Doesn’t matter?
“The hell it does!” I shout, “Where did you get that name?” My anxiety is through the roof. I am filled to the brim with dread and my heart’s beating so fast I can’t breathe. I am even more aware of my near to bursting bladder now, because I am petrified that this man’s answer will shock me into losing control. I’m starting to shake like a wet chihuahua in a thunderstorm, waiting on his answer and staring at this man like I’ve refused to until now.
His lips are tight, jaw clenched, knuckles white on the steering wheel, and his eyes seem to have softened some. So much so, that he now appears haunted as opposed to cold. He finally opens his mouth to speak and he says the one word that nearly throws me overboard. Not even a word really, just a name, “Marc.”
Hi voice is quiet and strained. This man knows something, but I know that I’m going to have to wait. Not only is he tight lipped to begin with, but I can tell that whatever memory he is relieving after uttering Marc’s name disturbs him. Asking right now is a bad idea. I stay quiet in my panic, although I want nothing more than to know what he knows. How did he find me? What does he know about Marc? Is Marc even dead? If he wasn’t, could I go back now? It’s been three years since he disappeared, and four since I last was able to see or speak with him. I grieved Marc’s passing years ago, but now it feels as if I am grieving him all over again.

THREE

Finally, a bathroom. I rush to the door in my red slippers while tugging the bottom of my oversize t-shirt down to cover my behind. Before I can shut and lock the door behind me, Chris stops it with his hand, “Forgetting something?”
“No,” I retort and dart back into the ladies’ room. I have to pee so bad right now that Satan himself could crowd in to watch and I would care a bit. I’m already on the toilet before Chris can close the door. “Christ, woman,” he exclaims, “I was only giving you clothes. I planned to wait outside.”
“I had to go. You’ve had me in that car for at least twelve hours. You stopped the door, you get to endure my bodily functions.” He sets the bag down by my feet and then retreats to stick his nose in the corner. I open the bag. It’s full of my things. He packed a bag of just my stuff before he woke up. Creepily thoughtful. Several pairs of jeans, T-shirts, sweaters, underclothes…
“You went through my underwear drawer? Seriously?”
I toss on a pair of jeans and a sweater before returning to the bag. At least he packed my shit-kicker boots instead of some of my other shoe choices. And what’s this? My gun. He packed my handgun. Either I really am in big trouble, or he is dumbest kidnapper to date. What the hell, let’s test him.
I pop the clip out of the gun to check for ammo; it’s fully loaded. Chris chooses now to turn around, taking the metallic slide of the clip as a cue that I am now dressed. His hands are at his side and looks relaxed as he says, “There’s more ammo in the car. Let’s hope we don’t need it.” There is one more thing I’d like to find in this bag, so put the gun under my belt and bend over to look more.
“Looking for these,” Chris asks when I give up and zip the bag closed. In his hand is a pack of cigarettes. I scowl and hold out my hand palm up. He shrugs and tosses them over, “We’ve got a couple more hours to drive, let’s get going.”
I’m probably an idiot, because I follow him back to the car; No questions asked, no gun raised, no running away. I can tell at this point that he at least doesn’t intend to harm me. I haven’t been tied or gagged yet, and he looked almost as sad as I felt when he said Marc’s name. He didn’t peek when I changed, and even gave me a loaded gun. Should I trust the guy? Probably not, but curiosity and all that. Not to mention, I have no clue where I am.
He doesn’t get back on the interstate, but instead follows the small winding road into the woods. After a while, the nose of the car is beginning to tip upward and the road is curving in a zig-zag up the side of a mountain. I’m on the edge of my seat as I watch the ground fall away next to me with every mile. “You have got to be kidding me,” I mumble, “Look Chris, I was going to wait to smoke. Hell, I’ve made it this long, but now there’s a freaking cliffside less than ten feet away from me while we’re speeding along in a tin can on wheels.”
He says nothing, just simply rolls my window down a bit to filter out the smoke as I light a cigarette. “Thanks,” I say after taking a drag, “It was this or the floor board. Personally, I may not want to look at a damn cliff while going fifty miles an hour, but the cigarette keeps me in the seat where it’s safer, if less reassuring.” I smoke in silence, trying not to look out the window. I don’t expect any conversation. Chris hasn’t said much the whole ride and told me I would get answers when we get to our destination. The few times he has spoken, it was brief and he probably said as little as possible to get me to shut up.
“Just wait until we go down the other side,” Chris says unexpectedly. I can’t even open my mouth to speak. We have to go back down the same way? Zigging and zagging back and forth, downhill next to a cliff. That sounds worse than the ascent. “Dear god,” I moan, “I may need a drink to do the downhill part.”
“Can’t help you there,” he says, “But if it makes you feel better, we only have to go part of the way down.”
I am not comforted at all and let him know this as I reply with deadpan sarcasm, “Comforting.”
Chris grins and continues to drive. I am holding on to the “Oh-Shit” handle above my head with a death grip while we scale the mountain and silently praying to any god that may exist for me to survive this car ride. After what feels like hours, we reach the top and begin the descent. I close my eyes. Maybe if I can’t see where we are, I can imagine the soft hills and flatlands further south. I am wrong. Closing my eyes only makes my stomach more aware of the downward slope and I am quickly becoming very nauseated.
“How much farther? I’d like to avoid a technicolor yawn in your floor board.” My stomach is heaving by the time Chris is able to pull over. I run away from the cliffside and drop to my knees as I empty my stomach. After a few minutes, I am only dry heaving, so I scoot away from the pool of stomach acid and sit with my head between my knees.
I am taking as deep of breaths as I can when my heavy bag thuds against the ground beside me. I lift my head in time to watch the car roll downhill, gaining speed. At the next curve, it launches off the road and over the cliffside. Dumbstruck, and terrified that this guy is finally going to turn on me, I open my mouth to scream. But Chris already has me in his arms and is covering my mouth. I must be totally out of my gourd or developing Stockholm’s syndrome, because instead of biting him like I should, I fold my whole body against his chest and start to cry.
He says nothing, just picks me up, grabs that bag from the ground and walks off into the woods. I spend several minutes like this, my face buried against his chest. Good god, this guy is ripped. His pecs are taut due to my weight he is carrying, but his breathing is even. He must have amazing stamina. Well, that’s an affirmative on the Stockholm’s syndrome. Here I am admiring Chris’s firm chest muscles while he is probably working out where to hide my body.
Then why did he pack my clothes? So that I’d trust him obviously.
Why did he give me a gun? Well now, that question I can’t answer. If he planned to do anything bad to me, he’d be an idiot for giving me a gun.
“Elizabeth,” Chris softly interrupts my musings, “We’ll get to the safehouse faster if I could put you down.”
“How do I know you’re not just going to kill me when we get there?”
Chris shrugs with a bit of a smile, and I notice that he has dimples at both corners of his mouth, “Then why would I have sent you that message?”
“What message?” I ask with a sinking feeling in my stomach. I wait for the answer that I don’t want, but already know is coming.
“In the fortune cookie.” Well shit on a stick. I really am in a genuine pickle, and I have no idea why. “Now come on,” Chris continues, “We have about another mile to hike before we reach the safehouse. There will be plenty of time for questions there.”
I never notice at what point Chris sat me down, but I am sitting on the ground with Chris crouching in front of me, hand outstretched to help me get up. He may not realize it, but that hand isn’t merely an offer of help off of the ground. Chris’s hand lingering in front of me is really asking for my trust in him; to keep me safe from whoever is after me and to answer my questions. I can’t do that yet, so I plant my hands on the ground to either side of me and push myself back up. Chris withdraws his hand rather awkwardly and stands as well. “Give me a bag or two and let’s march on, soldier boy,” I say while extending my hand.

FOUR

Oh dear god. Walking a mile uphill on rocky ground is horrendous. Give me flat land any day, and I’d have ran six miles in the time it is taking to walk one. All I can see is a waterfall atop a cliff looming ahead of us. Chris strides purposely to the water’s edge and reveals a rope hidden in the leaves at his feet that stretches upward to anchor atop the cliff above our heads. You have got to be kidding me. I have to go rock climbing now? I make an extremely unattractive noise to illustrate just how enthused I am. Which by the way, is not at all. I hate rock climbing.
“Please tell me there’s a couple of safety harnesses in one of these bags,” I ask. As if he already knew what I was going to ask, Chris rolls a small boulder away from the cliff face to reveal a small opening where two harnesses had been hidden. Well, at least that much. Now I’m a little less likely to fall to my death by slipping on a wet rock.
“Ladies first,” Chris intones once my legs and waist are both secured in the harness. I close my eyes and take deep breath before placing my hands on the stone. I begin to climb. I look nowhere but at the stone above me searching for the next handhold. I finally reach the top; I am amazed that I’ve managed to avoid my death. One problem remains with rock climbing: Getting my ass up and over the ledge. That part is the worst. Not only am I woman with more leg strength than arm, but in the process of getting myself over, I am temporarily sideways. This affords me a magnificent view below me of the very hard, very rocky ground that I am sure to fall and die upon.
Finally, my other leg swings up and I roll away from the edge wheezing in terror. God, I hate heights. I felt safer with the assassins in my living room back in Florida. If Chris isn’t trying to kill me, this damned mountain is.
“Come on,” Chris says, “we still have ways to walk.” When did he get up here? How long have I been wheezing in the dirt? “Why are you bleeding,” I ask stupidly instead of getting up. He looks puzzled, so I point at his arm where there is a jagged cut just above his left elbow. “Got caught on a rock,” He responds easily, “I’ll patch it up later.”
He pulls me to feet and walks back toward the ledge where the rope is still hanging taut. He begins to pull it up. I stay standing where I was put while removing the harness. You couldn’t pay me to go back to that cliffside. Soon the two large duffel bags are hauled up over the edge with us and we are walking again. Straight toward death on a rope.
I swear to everything holy that this guy’s idea of safety is seriously skewed as he leads me toward the rushing waters of the river. No lie, there is a rope ladder hanging over the river and it looks like it should have been retired and replaced with concrete a good twenty years ago, or more. Most of the boards are long gone, so there is only wet rope to cling to. Speaking of rope, while I have been staring at the death trap before me in total horror, Chris has literally tied me to him by my waist.
“In case you fall,” he says as he tightens the knot resting near my navel. “Oh no. No, no, no. Now I know you’re trying to kill me,” I exclaim, as I try backing away, “I just didn’t expect murder-suicide.” Shit. Just like the idiot blonde from a stereotypical horror film, I completely forgot the rope currently tied around my waist. “I’ll go first this time,” chirps Chris as he mounts the rope stretching across the river, dragging me behind him. This effectively forces me on the rope as well.
Logically, I know that wet rope is actually stronger, but this one is so drenched from the spray of the rapids inches beneath my feet that I’m chanting some crazy shit about physics and science in general to keep myself distracted until there is solid ground under my feet again; not one hundred-year-old rope.
Unfortunately for me, yet extremely fortunate for Chris’s amusement, I’m still mumbling and side stepping for about twenty feet after I hit the ground. When my brain catches up with my body and realizes that I am in fact standing dirt and grass, I begin to fight with the knot over my stomach. Chris is having a great laugh at my expense, but I put an end to that as I throw the rope at him and hit him square in his magnificent muscled chest.
“Please,” I beg, “for the love of god tell me that my damned cigarettes are dry.” Honestly, I could probably smoke the whole pack on top of a dose of valium fit for an elephant at a mouse circus and still be freaked out. In between fits of giggles Chris tells me, “You left them in the car.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” I exclaim. Chris merely shrugs as he aborts laughing and begins to walk toward our destination once again. Seeing no other options, and a regrettable lack of tobacco fields, I follow.

FIVE

The sun is setting as we come upon a cave set in the side of the mountain. Chris stops in front of the opening and pulls a plastic bag out of his duffel bag. “Think fast,” he says as he tosses a flashlight toward me. “I hope this is a normal hike through a small cave,” I respond after catching the flashlight. “You’ll see,” Chris chirps. So long as there is no spelunking involved, I suppose I’ll make it. I follow closely into the darkness. We trek a couple dozen yards into the cave where we find and opening to another cavern. Chris passes by it and continues deeper into the main cavern. Soon we reach a sheer drop into nothing. Chris turns and walks over to the left-hand side wall which is dotted with the remnants of graffiti and cave paintings long forgotten. He places his hand over the faded images and I hear a peculiar clicking sound before the wall opens to reveal narrowly carved staircase going deeper down into the dark.
“Ladies first,” Chris intones as he gestures with his hand. Shit on a stick. I take a step backward, “What’s down there?”
“The safe house. I have to destroy the lock so we can’t be followed, and seeing as the passage is too narrow, you have to go first.” So not the answer that I wanted. “Go down fifteen steps and wait inside the crevice on the left,” he continues, “I’ll meet you there when I’m done.”
Chris sets his bag down and begins to rifle through it before he pulls out what appears to be sculpting clay. My survival instinct kicks in, realizing that what he is actually holding is C-4 explosive clay. I high tail it down those fifteen steps and hop in the crevice as instructed. I wait for an explosion, it never comes. My ears are straining, my nerves are nearing new levels or rawness, and all I can make out is a faint tapping and rustling. After it feels like an eternity has passed, Chris finally reaches his hand into my hiding spot and pulls me out behind him.
“Keep up,” is all he says as he sets a brisk pace down the stairs. The narrow passage has no turns and it never curves. The stairs descend in a straight line for their entirety, there are several more nooks and crannies like the one I hid in earlier; some on the right, some on the left, and a few directly across from one another. We have been walking for so long that my feet are going numb and I have to watch every step I take to avoid falling forward. I should have been watching Chris’s steps, because when he suddenly stops in front of me, I keep walking and bump right into him. I look up from my feet and peer over his shoulder to find that there is large steel door in front of us where the steps end.
“That is one hell of a door,” I gasp. The door looks like an old-fashioned bank vault door, complete with the huge combination style lock. Chris drops his bag next to his feet and proceeds to turn the large metal arm. The door swings open toward us revealing an underground river. There is a rowboat tied to a metal stake that’s embedded in the stone bank. Assuming we must next travel by boat, I place the bag I am carrying into the floor of the craft and climb in while Chris secures the large vault door behind us. I almost missed the distant boom as the C-4 exploded.
Boats I can do. I like rowing the oars, the slap of the water on wood in a steady beat lulls me into a meditative state. By the time Chris joins me in the rowboat, I have the oars placed and am actually ready for this next leg of our journey. He settles in and places a compass on the seat between us, “Keep the bow pointed east, and we won’t hit any walls.” I begin to row in silence, and listen to the splash of the oars bounce off the cave walls. Stroke after stroke of the oars make my arms begin to tire, but it doesn’t bother me as it distracts me from the soreness blossoming in my feet now that I can feel them again. The repetitive nature of rowing is soothing to me, and I soon lose all track of time, enveloped in my task.
Chris flicks the light away from the compass long enough to check the time on his watch, “It’s after midnight. You’ve been rowing for hours. Let me take over.” I pass him the oars and stretch my arms above my head and behind my back before holding the flashlight over the compass. With my mind now unoccupied by keeping pace on the oars, I realize how exhausted I am and an enormous yawn escapes past my lips. My head begins to tip down only to snap back up.
“If you can, there is a head lamp in my bag,” Chris gestures with his chin behind him, “Then you could sleep a bit.” I can think of only two ways to access the bag behind him without disturbing his strokes. One would be to wrap my arms around his waist with my head in his lap, which as tempting as that may be, it would be a rather precarious situation potentially leading up to distractions that we can ill afford while in river underground. I opt for the other, though still precarious, but not as potentially distracting, option of lying flat in the bottom of the boat. I lean forward and place the flash light in Chris’s mouth. I almost miss the flash of lust in his eyes as I lower myself past his lap and stretch out with my head beneath his seat. I don’t stay that way long. As I slide myself out from under his seat, I slide the bag with me to rest on the floor between us where some of the light directed at the compass shines on it. This provides me with just enough dim light to see inside the bag. I quickly start to dig through the contents, ignoring the things you’d expect, such as clothes, and trying to forget other items, such as grenades and other munitions. I quickly find the headlamp and zip the bag closed.
I lean forward, conscious of my proximity to Chris while trying not to interrupt his rowing. I reach over his head, and I am sliding the band of the lamp around his head when that feeling of Stockholm’s returns. His unkempt and tousled brown hair is like silk beneath and between my fingers sending a tingling feeling down along my spine. I feel my cheeks warm as a blush spreads across them, so I hurriedly flick the lamp on and remove the flashlight from his mouth before retreating away with my face turned downward to hide my fascination. The need for sleep almost fled in the presence of my awkwardly placed lust, but staring at my feet incites a boredom that lulls me to sleep.

The boat suddenly begins to rock, jerking me awake. I’m unsure of when I laid down and curled up on my seat, but here I am. I slowly sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes. We have reached the mouth of the cave, as well as the mouth of the river. Behind Chris, the sun is rising over a golden sea with a smaller sized yacht bobbing on the surface. “Dear gods I hope we are heading toward the yacht,” I swoon at the sight. Chris grins as he turns the rowboat toward the rocky shore just inside the mouth of the cave. “Not unless you want to pirate it,” he jokes, “we are here, however.” His proclamation confuses me, and I’m looking everywhere I can for some sign of shelter, but all I see is the yacht, bobbing gently with the wind and the water.
“Exactly where is here?”
Chris helps me out of the boat and hands me the bags, “Canada.” he then pulls out his handgun. I begin to panick, thinking this is where he finally kills me. My hand are shaking and the fact that I have a gun of my own in my waistband almost fled. “Relax,” he says as he proceeds to fill the bottom of the row boat with bullet holes, “now we go uphill.” I pick up my bag and follow behind him. We are soon surrounded by forest again and we walked clear through noon. My stomache begins to ache and a loud gurgling noise is emanating from it. I realize that its been almost three days since I've eaten more than energy bar as we hiked through wilderness. As the light began to dim from the setting sun, I almost missed it. Ahead, is small cottage hidden between ancient trees and surrounded by underbrush, “Please let this be our destination, and please let it have a stocked kitchen.” Chris smiled while lifting his hand to gesture toward the cottage, “your palace awaits you.”