Morning starts with fog so thick the trees look half-erased. The smokehouse door sticks; I have to lean a shoulder into it. The space heater coughs and quits. I rub my hands together and tell myself it's fine. Cold proves you're alive.
At the hall, Sam stands by the whiteboard with a short list and shorter patience. He taps the marker against the first line. "Smokehouse watch," he says. "All day. Lock stays on. Answer the radio. Log passes. You don't leave the post unless relieved."
"Got it," I say.
He watches me a second longer than he needs to. "We've had junk disappear," he says. "Tools. Gas can. Somebody thinks free means theirs. We're done with that."
"Okay."
Embry bounces in behind him with two cups and a grin already on. "Bad coffee, good attitude," he announces, handing me one. "C'mon, new kid, I'll show you where we keep the fancy clipboard."
"Don't call it that," Sam says, but he doesn't sound like he expects to be obeyed.
Embry walks me around like I'm going to take a test later. He points with his elbow because both hands are busy: coffee in one, ring of keys in the other. "Generator," he says, toeing the green box. "Only touch if Sue yells. First-aid kit in that gray bin. Jumper cables in the old Pepsi crate. Radio lives on the hook. Channel three for us, one for the rest of the planet. If you hear Paul on three, you're allowed to sigh first."
"I don't sigh," I say.
"You will," he says, easy. "Log's here. Write clean. Times matter when people lie."
He pops the pad open and taps the top line. POST LOG in black marker, last night's times neat as fence posts. He hands me the pen like he's passing a baton. For a second, my fingers don't want to take it. Then they do.
"Food?" I ask. "Or am I supposed to synthesize nutrients from cold?"
Embry grins. "We do pay. In muffins. Sue-level muffins, though. So, charity case at best."
I take the post. It's a chair, a table, a view of the lot, and the door that sticks. It's also a test. I don't need Sam to say it out loud. I've had this kind of test before: sit still, don't screw up, don't make anyone sorry they gave you a job.
Embry lingers, rocking on his heels. "You get you're not in time-out, right? This isn't 'put the white wolf in the little box.' Sam just—" He rolls a shoulder. "He trusts slow."
"I can do slow," I say.
He tilts his head. "Yeah. I think you can." He salutes with the coffee and heads out. "Call if anything even looks like it wants to be dumb."
The first hour is nothing. I list the nothing in the log like it matters: 08:10: Embry pass. All clear. 08:38: Rina drop-off. 08:47: Power flicker. It settles. The act of writing keeps my hands from feeling useless.
Leah passes at a jog, human, hair dark with mist. She doesn't stop. "Don't fall asleep," she says without looking.
"I won't," I say to her shoulder.
Around nine-thirty, a dirt-smeared sedan creaks into the lot and dies with a cough. A woman climbs out, shoulders up around her ears, toddler on hip. Her face says she's had the kind of morning that makes others day bad.
"Stay put," I tell myself. "Don't leave the post." I pick up the radio. "Embry," I say on three. "Can you swing to the lot? Got a car there."
"On it," he says. His voice comes back with a smile in it. "Tell it I'm bringing my stethoscope."
The woman eyes me like she's not sure I'm real. I lift a hand, not waving, just there. "Someone's on the way," I say. "He's good."
She breathes out like this has been waiting for her lungs. "Thank you."
Embry shows up two minutes later, toolbox in hand. He kneels, listens, tightens, coaxes. The car hums. The toddler hands him a cracker, as if it's payment. He takes it like it's proper currency. The woman thanks him three times and once more to me. I log it: 09:41 -Vehicle assist. Embry handled. No issues.
Paul saunters by at ten, hands in hoodie pocket, toothpick back in his mouth like the world had to wait while he went and got a prop. He looks at the lock on the smokehouse door and then at me.
"So this is the job," he says. "Sit pretty. Guard the mop bucket."
"Looks that way," I say.
"Make sure no one steals the sacred bleach." He leans his shoulder on the door frame. "You enjoying being useful, Branch?"
The word still bites. Less than yesterday. "Yeah," I say. "It beats being a story."
Embry appears again like he heard the weather change. He bumps Paul with one shoulder on his way past. "Quit flirting and go be loud somewhere else."
Paul clicks his tongue. "Take a lap, golden retriever."
Embry's grin doesn't move. "Proud to."
Paul looks back at me, expecting heat. I don't give it. He leaves boredom in his wake when he goes. I put a line in the log: 10:03- Paul pass-mouth engaged.
At eleven, Sue brings a Styrofoam container and sets it on the table without ceremony. "Chicken. Eat."
"Thanks," I say. "Embry told me about the muffins."
She snorts. "Those are for my enemies."
I eat with the radio at my elbow, like it might answer back. A couple of middle-schoolers drift in, like tumbleweed, trying to slip inside the hall. I stand.
"Gym's closed," I say.
"We just need the bathroom," one says, eyes already moving toward the storeroom where the soda is.
"Bathroom's under repair," I lie. "But I have water. One each."
I hand over paper cups. They roll their eyes like I made a good joke at their expense and trudge off to the beach. I log them. 11:22 - Two kids, redirected. No entry. It feels petty until I imagine Sam asking, "Who?" and me saying, "Two kids," and him saying, "Which?" The writing makes them real.
After noon, the fog burns off just enough that I can see the ridge line. The Cullens' roof barely ghosts the treetops. It sits like a thought I choose not to have.
I switch to wolf for one hour because Sam's list says "Shift if steady." It's steady. Bones grind and set. White fur picks up the air. I circle the building twice, slow, paws silent on wet dirt. No one is close. The ocean smells like salt and wet. A deer track cuts the back lot; I leave it alone. When I go inside to change back, the door catches and I side-eye it like we're in a fight.
Embry shows up with a bottle of Gatorade and a pack of gum. He tosses both onto the table. "For the glamorous life."
"Do I get a crown?" I ask.
He points at the radio. "That's your crown. Congrats."
We sit for a minute while he tells me about Jared's theory on which stretch of road kills brake pads fastest. "He's wrong," Embry says, cheerful. "But I admire the confidence."
"Confidence is cheaper than parts," I say.
He laughs. Real, not loud. "Yeah."
Two o'clock brings a tiny flare-up. A guy in a rusted pickup decides the back of the hall is his dump and starts to unload a cracked dresser. I step off the stoop and hold up a hand.
"Can't leave that here," I say. "Transfer station's open 'til four."
He doesn't look like a bad man. He looks like a tired one. "I ain't payin' to dump this," he says.
"You will if Sue catches you," I say. "And you'll pay twice."
He snorts but eyes the hall like Sue might sprout from the siding. "Who're you?"
"Hall watch," I say. "Transfer station is on LaPush Road. I can write it down."
He hesitates. That's the crack. I push, gentle. "There's someone else's wedding cleanup next week. That dresser doesn't need to be in their photos."
That lands. He sighs like a man who ran out of fight yesterday and reloads the dresser with a grunt. I point him the right way, hand him the note. He mutters a thanks he didn't mean to let out and drives off. I log it. 14:07- Illegal dump attempt. Redirected. No incident.
By three, the sun gives up. The air goes flat and gray again. I stretch my back and roll my shoulders. My body remembers hospital beds and bad pillows. I tell it we're doing better than that.
A bike starts up somewhere down the street. Not close, not far. The sound brushes against me like a hand I'm not ready for. It idles, revs once, then goes quiet. I keep my eyes on the lock until it's gone.
Near four, Rina stops by, hands in jacket pockets, eyes scanning because that's how she's built. "Bored yet?" she asks.
"Working," I say.
She nods like that's the right answer. "Good."
Sam returns at five with wet hair and a face that looks like he wrestled weather. He doesn't step onto the stoop. He doesn't need to. "Report."
I pass him the clipboard. He flips it, reads every line, not skimming. He stops at Paul pass- mouth engaged and almost smiles. Almost.
"Radio checks?" he asks.
"Every hour," I say. "Channel three clear. One's just noise."
He nods. "No line issues."
"No," I say. "Quiet. Deer track behind the shed."
"Fine." He looks past me at the lock, at the door, at my hands. "You eat?"
"Yes," I say. "Thank you."
Leah jogs up then, ponytail swinging. She slows but doesn't stop. "No fires?" she asks.
"Only in Paul's soul," Embry calls from across the lot.
"Tragic," Leah says, deadpan, and keeps going.
Sam hooks the clipboard back on its nail. "You're relieved," he says. "Same post at dawn."
"I'll be here," I say.
He pauses. "Hate to tell you, but that's the job."
"I don't hate it," I say. "I like having one."
He hears something in that he doesn't hate. He nods once, short, and turns away.
I lock the door, pocket the keys, and start toward the smokehouse. My legs are tired. My head is quiet in a way I don't expect. It's not peace. It's not welcome. It's the steadiness that comes after you carry something heavy and put it in the right place.
On the street, the garage with the half-open door shows a slice of motorbike and a pair of hands wiping grease with a rag. The laugh I know by now doesn't come. There's only low music and the clink of a tool set right where it belongs.
I keep walking.
Inside the smokehouse, I sit on the cot and stare at the wall until the paint settles. My fingers smell like bleach.
Liked is nice. It opens doors. It makes rooms warm. I'm not getting that yet.
But a door with a lock and a job on the other side is still a door. It opens either way.
Useful beats liked.