The lean-to smelled like damp earth when Ian dragged himself out of it, his body screaming protest at every movement.
Sleep hadn't come back after the squirrel incident—or whatever the hell that thing had been. He'd spent the remaining hours of darkness lying rigid against the oak's trunk, the pole clutched across his chest, his ears straining for any sound that might indicate something was circling back. Every rustle of leaves became a threat. Every distant crack of a branch was something massive moving through the forest toward him.
Nothing had happened. The clearing had remained silent except for the usual night sounds that should have been comforting but just made his paranoia worse. And now dawn was breaking over the tree line, painting everything in that gray pre-sunrise light, and his body felt like it had been beaten with rocks instead of rested.
Ian's eyes burned. That gritty, hot sensation that came from keeping them open too long, from forcing alertness when exhaustion wanted to drag him under. His head felt stuffed with cotton, his thoughts moving through sludge instead of forming with any useful speed. The kind of tired that made simple tasks feel insurmountable.
But the hide was waiting. The leather hung from the branch where he'd left it, dark with oil, ready for the final step. And the cabin walls—still only ten logs high, still needing at least three more before roof construction made any sense. Winter was coming whether he was tired or not. The season didn't care that something with an impossible tail had kept him awake half the night.
His stomach cramped, reminding him he'd barely eaten yesterday. The fish trap would be full again. That was something. Protein to get him through whatever fresh hell today decided to throw at him.
But first—the hide. The smoking couldn't wait any longer. The knowledge had been specific about timing, about the window where the leather was ready for that final preservation step. Too long and the oil would start to go rancid, would turn the hide into something that smelled like rot instead of leather.
Ian grabbed the pole and forced his legs to carry him toward the fire pit. His bare foot found every sharp stone and stick in the clearing, but the discomfort was distant, pushed aside by exhaustion that made everything feel muted.
The fire pit was cold ash. He needed to rebuild it, needed to get coals going that would smolder rather than blaze. The smoking process required low heat and thick smoke—too much flame and the leather would cook instead of cure.
The bow drill setup was still there from yesterday—the fireboard, the spindle, the dried grass bundle waiting. Ian positioned himself and set the spindle against the board. His hands moved through the familiar motions, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought felt too exhausting. The pole became the bow without him asking, the cordage already wrapped around the spindle in that perfect configuration.
He worked the bow back and forth. The spindle rotated, friction building, smoke rising almost immediately from the notch. He kept the rhythm steady. The ember appeared faster than it should have—glowing red-orange in the notch, fragile and necessary.
Ian tipped the coal into his tinder bundle and blew gently. The smoke thickened. The glow spread through the dried grass. Flames caught in the birch bark, yellow-orange and hungry, and he fed them carefully into the fire pit.
The fire grew, but he couldn't let it get too hot. The knowledge was specific—he needed coals, not flames. Smoke, not heat. Ian grabbed green branches from the forest edge, wood still damp enough to smolder instead of burn clean. He built up the fire carefully,
Green wood went on next—oak and hickory that would smolder instead of burning hot. The smoke thickened immediately, gray-white columns rising into the morning air. The smell was sharp, resinous, coating the back of his throat.
He retrieved the hide from where it hung and examined it in the growing light. The leather looked good—supple, the oil having penetrated deep into the grain. The fur side was matted in places but intact. This would work. Had to work. He couldn't afford to start over.
He got the stand where he once hanged jerky and used it as the frame—two upright posts with crossbars, the whole thing designed to suspend the hide above the smoking fire. The knowledge guided the construction, showing him exactly how to position everything for optimal smoke circulation.
Ian drove the uprights into the ground on either side of the fire pit, then lashed the crossbars in place with strips of bark twisted into cordage. The frame stood solid, maybe four feet tall, positioned so the hide would hang directly in the smoke's path.
He draped the leather over the top crossbar, arranging it so both sides would be exposed to the rising smoke. The hide hung there like some primitive banner, the oiled surface already beginning to darken as the smoke wrapped around it.
Now came the waiting. Hours of tending fire, keeping the coals hot enough to produce thick smoke but not so hot they'd flame up and cook the leather. His eyes felt like they had sand in them. His body wanted nothing more than to collapse and sleep for a week. But the hide wouldn't tend itself.
Ian settled onto the ground near the fire and fed more green wood into the coals. The smoke intensified, billowing up around the hide in thick clouds. The smell was overwhelming this close—wood smoke and burning sap and that distinctive scent of leather being transformed. His eyes watered. His throat felt raw. But he couldn't stop now.
The smoke was billowing steadily around the leather, thick and consistent. The hide darkened where the smoke penetrated, the surface taking on that rich color that meant the process was working. He could afford a break. Just long enough to check the trap, cook something, get protein into his system before his legs gave out completely.
Ian stood, his vision swimming slightly from the sudden movement. The exhaustion was worse than he'd thought—his balance felt off, his coordination sluggish. He grabbed the pole for support and headed toward the river, leaving the smoking fire to do its work.
The trap sat between the boulders exactly where it always was. Through the woven willows he could see movement—three fish, their silver bodies pressed together in the confined space. His mouth watered so intensely it almost hurt.
He waded in, the cold water shocking against his legs but barely registering through the fog of exhaustion. The trap lifted clear, water streaming from the weave. Three decent-sized fish, thrashing against each other with that same mindless panic. The pole became the needle-point blade and he dispatched them quickly, the kills clean despite his shaking hands.
The cleaning went on autopilot. His fingers moved through familiar motions—blade separating flesh from bone, the guts coming away in practiced pulls. Six fillets laid out on bark, pale pink and necessary.
Back at the clearing, he checked the smoking fire first. The coals were still hot, the green wood smoldering perfectly, thick smoke rising in steady columns. The hide hung in the smoke's path, both surfaces darkening evenly. Good. Still working. He could take ten minutes.
Ian built up a separate cooking fire at the edge of the main pit, just enough flame to heat stones. His hands shook as he positioned the flat rocks, exhaustion making even simple tasks feel complicated. The stones heated slowly while he fed more green wood to the smoking fire, keeping the smoke thick around the hide.
When the cooking stones were hot enough—water droplets sizzling and evaporating instantly—he laid the fillets across them. The smell hit immediately, rich and savory, making his stomach cramp so hard he had to brace himself against the ground. He didn't wait for them to finish completely. The first fillet went into his mouth barely cooked through, hot enough to burn his tongue but he didn't care.
All six fillets disappeared in minutes. The protein hit his system like a drug, that immediate relief of hunger being answered. Not satisfied—his body would need more than this to recover from yesterday's marathon—but functional. Enough to keep moving.
He wiped the fish grease on his jeans and checked the hide again. The smoke was still billowing steadily, but the wood pile was getting low. He'd need more green branches soon to keep the smoldering consistent. Later. After the walls.
The cabin stood across the clearing, ten logs high, the walls rising to his shoulders. Three more logs. Just three more and he could start thinking about the roof. The knowledge was already there, waiting—rafter construction, crossbeam placement, whatever went on top to actually keep weather out. But first the walls needed to be tall enough to make that next step possible.
Ian grabbed the pole and headed for the tree line, his bare foot finding the path through muscle memory. His eyes kept drifting back to the smoking fire, checking that the smoke stayed thick, that the hide wasn't catching flame. The pines he'd marked yesterday still stood waiting—straight trunks, good diameter, perfect for the final courses.
The pole became an axe. The blade bit into the first trunk with that familiar ease that should have felt wrong but just felt necessary. Each swing sent vibrations up his arms, his exhausted muscles protesting but continuing anyway. The tree groaned, tilted, fell with that distinctive crack and rush.
He moved to the second pine immediately. No time to rest between tasks. The smoke was still rising back at the clearing—he could see it through the trees, gray-white columns against the morning sky. Still good. Still working. His hands kept swinging the axe, chips flying, the second tree groaning as the cut widened.
The trunk fell. Ian was already moving to the third pine, his vision blurring slightly at the edges but his hands knowing what to do. The axe blade bit deep, over and over, until the final tree joined its companions on the forest floor.
Three logs. Three more courses on the walls. He could do this.
The delimbing went faster than it should have. The pole shifted between configurations—saw, knife, axe—as needed, the branches coming away clean. He checked the clearing between each trunk. The smoke was still thick, still billowing around the hide. Good. Still good. His hands kept moving, stripping bark in long pulls, the pale sapwood underneath wet with sap that made his palms sticky.
The first log was ready. Ian positioned the pole beneath it as a lever, and the trunk began its reluctant journey back to the clearing. He had to stop twice to check the fire—the smoke had thinned slightly, needed more green wood. He fed oak branches into the coals, watched the smoke thicken again, then returned to hauling the log.
He looked towards the firepit to see the smoke was still rising steadily. The hide hung in the thick clouds, both surfaces dark now, the leather transforming with each hour of exposure.
The notching required focus he barely had. The pole became measuring tools, then a saw, then a chisel. His hands moved through the familiar pattern—cut the grooves, clean them out, test the fit. But his eyes kept drifting to the smoke always keeping an eye on it.
The first notch came together clean, the grooves locking with that satisfying precision. Ian moved to the second corner, his hands working through the pattern automatically while his mind drifted.
A week.
The thought surfaced without warning, cutting through the fog of exhaustion with uncomfortable clarity. He'd been here a week now. Seven nights since he'd woken up in this forest with nothing but the clothes on his back and a pole that shouldn't exist. Seven nights of fighting to survive in a world that wanted him dead.
Seven nights without his phone. Without electricity. Without running water or central heating or any of the thousand small conveniences he'd taken for granted his entire life. No microwave dinners. No streaming services to numb his brain before sleep. No hot showers that lasted until the building's water heater gave up.
His hands slowed on the chisel, the blade hovering over the half-cut groove. Seven nights without talking to another person. Without even seeing another person. Just him and the forest and the constant grind of survival that left no room for anything else.
The loneliness hit like a physical blow, sharp enough that his breath caught. His apartment had been shit—water-stained ceiling, broken window seal, neighbors who screamed through thin walls at all hours. But it had been his. And he'd been able to walk down to the corner store, exchange a few words with the clerk, exist in a space where other humans acknowledged he was alive.
Here there was nothing. No one. Just trees and river and whatever the hell that thing with the impossible tail had been. He could die out here and no one would know. No one would come looking. His body would rot in this clearing and the forest would consume it like it consumed everything else most likely by that bird who stole his jerky, and the world would keep turning without noticing the absence.
Ian's grip tightened on the chisel until his knuckles went white. He forced his hands back into motion, the blade cutting deeper into the wood grain. The notch needed to be precise. Needed to fit perfectly or the whole wall would be compromised. Focus on that. Focus on the immediate task and not the crushing weight of isolation pressing down on his chest.
But the thoughts kept creeping in, insidious and persistent. A week without seeing another face. Without hearing another voice. The silence was worse than the physical labor, worse than the hunger and cold and constant exhaustion. At least those were problems he could address with the pole's help. The loneliness just sat in his chest like a stone, getting heavier each day.
The notch was done. He moved to the third corner, his vision blurring slightly. From exhaustion or something else, he couldn't tell and didn't want to examine too closely. The chisel bit into wood, shavings curling away from the blade in neat spirals. Precise. Controlled. Unlike the thoughts spiraling through his head.
Maybe he'd never get back. The possibility had been lurking in the back of his mind since he'd woken up here, but he'd been too focused on survival to really confront it. What if there was no way home? What if this was just his life now—an endless cycle of building and hunting and fighting to stay alive, completely alone, until something finally killed him or he made a mistake that the pole couldn't fix?
His hands were shaking. The chisel slipped slightly, gouging deeper than intended. Ian cursed under his breath and adjusted his grip, forcing steadiness he didn't feel. The notch needed to be right. Had to be right. That was something he could control when everything else felt like it was sliding through his fingers.
The smoke was still rising from the fire pit, thick and steady. The hide hung in the billowing clouds, darkening with each passing minute. Good. That was good. Progress. Something tangible he'd accomplished despite the exhaustion and the crushing awareness that he was completely, utterly alone.
Ian finished the third notch and moved to the fourth corner. His body moved on autopilot, the chisel cutting through wood grain while his mind churned through thoughts he'd been successfully burying under constant labor. A week— NO! Stop that!
The fourth notch came together. All four corners done, ready for the log to be lifted into place. Ian set the chisel aside and grabbed the trunk.
The weight was wrong, awkward, his exhausted muscles barely cooperating. But the pole helped, distributing the load in ways that shouldn't be possible, and slowly—painfully—the log rose.
It settled into the notches with that solid thunk of wood meeting wood. Eleven logs high. The walls came up past his chest now, substantial and real. One step closer to having actual shelter instead of that pathetic lean-to. One more task completed. One more hour of not thinking about how alone he was.
Except the thoughts wouldn't stay buried. They kept surfacing between hammer blows and saw cuts, filling the spaces where exhaustion should have made his mind blank. A week without human contact. A week of talking to himself just to hear a voice, even if it was his own. A week of waking up alone and going to sleep alone and spending every hour in between fighting for survival without anyone to share the burden.
Ian grabbed the second log and began the notching process again. Cut the grooves. Clean them out. Test the fit. His hands knew what to do even when his brain wanted to shut down completely. The chisel bit into wood, shavings falling at his feet, the smoke still rising from the fire pit in steady columns.
Just keep moving. That was the only solution he had. Keep building, keep surviving!
The second log went up the weight fighting him every inch. Twelve logs high. The walls were tall enough now that he had to reach up to settle the final log into its notches.
The third log was torture. His vision grayed at the edges as he lifted, the pole doing most of the work but his body still required to guide, to position, to hold steady while the notches locked together. When it finally settled into place with that solid thunk, Ian's legs nearly gave out.
Thirteen logs high. The walls rose well above his head now when he stood inside. High enough for a roof. Finally, actually high enough.
He stumbled to the smoking fire and collapsed beside it, his chest heaving. The hide hung in the thick smoke, both surfaces dark now—almost black where the smoke had penetrated deepest. The leather had transformed completely, the surface showing that rich patina that meant proper preservation. How long had it been smoking? Hours, definitely. Long enough that his exhausted brain couldn't track the passage of time anymore.
Ian reached up and touched the edge of the hide carefully. The leather was warm from the smoke but not hot, the surface dry to the touch. He lifted it slightly, checking the other side. Both surfaces showed the same transformation—dark, supple, that distinctive smell of smoked leather mixing with the wood smoke that still billowed around it.
Done. The hide was done.
He pulled it down from the frame, the weight substantial in his hands. The leather draped across his lap, soft and pliable despite everything it had been through. This was actual leather now. Not raw skin or partially-processed material. Actual usable leather that could become clothing, boots, something better than the disintegrating rags currently falling apart on his body.
The accomplishment should have felt bigger. Should have brought some sense of satisfaction or pride. But all Ian felt was hollow exhaustion and that crushing awareness that he'd spent a week working himself to the bone without seeing another living person.
Its weird he never really was a people person. He didn't go to parties or stay out late at bars meeting people. Crowds were always to much for him. But now… He would do anything to be crowed by people he didn't even care what they were doing just to not feel so alone.
The fish trap would be filling again. His stomach cramped at the thought—he'd eaten those six fillets hours ago and his body was already demanding more. The constant labor burned through calories faster than he could replace them, and the hollow ache in his gut was becoming as familiar as the exhaustion weighing down his limbs.
Ian forced himself to stand and headed for the river. His bare foot found the path automatically, his body operating on autopilot while his mind drifted through that dangerous territory of isolation and loneliness he'd been trying to bury under constant work.
The trap held four fish this time. He dispatched them with mechanical efficiency, cleaned them with hands that barely shook anymore, carried the fillets back to the clearing without really seeing the forest around him. The cooking fire built itself under his hands—bow drill producing its ember, flames catching, stones heating. The fish cooked and he ate standing up, barely tasting the meat, just shoveling protein into his body like fuel into a machine.
When the last fillet was gone, Ian looked at the cabin. Thirteen logs high. Walls that rose above his head. Actual shelter that might keep weather out. The hide lay draped over the log where he'd left it, dark and supple and ready to be worked into something useful.
He'd done all this in a week. Built a structure, learned to hunt, processed a hide from raw skin to finished leather. Survived in a world that should have killed him a dozen times over. The pole made it possible, sure, but his hands had done the work. His sweat had fallen on these structures.
Buts his thoughts spiraled darker, pulling him down into that dangerous space where exhaustion and isolation combined into something that made continuing feel pointless. Ian's jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth ache. He grabbed the pole and headed for the lean-to before his brain could follow that spiral any further.
The shelter was still standing somehow, despite looking like it should have collapsed days ago. He crawled inside and pulled himself against the oak's trunk, the pole clutched across his chest. The bark dug into his spine through his ruined shirt, but he barely noticed anymore.
His eyes fell closed. The forest settled into its night sounds around him—insects and small rustlings and the river's constant murmur. The same sounds as every other night. The same isolation. The same crushing awareness that he was completely, utterly alone in a world that didn't care if he lived or died.
Tomorrow the walls would still be thirteen logs high. Tomorrow the hide would still need to be turned into clothing. Tomorrow he'd check the trap and eat fish and work until exhaustion forced him to stop. The cycle would continue because stopping meant dying, and some stubborn part of him wasn't ready to give up yet.
Even if he couldn't remember why.
Sleep dragged him under, heavy and dreamless and offering no escape from the loneliness that would be waiting when dawn forced him awake again.