Eli didn't sleep the next night, or the one after that.
He tried. Curled in the bunk with the blanket up to his throat, staring at the hatch in the floor like it might burst open. But there was nothing—no sirens, no flashes, no strange light crawling up through the woods.
Just stillness. A silence so deep it made his ears ring.
At first, it felt like a break. A gift. Maybe the worst was over.
But the quiet stretched too long. Too deep. The kind of silence that didn't feel like peace. More like the world was holding its breath… or had already exhaled for the last time.
He kept the radio on longer now, even though it only spit static. He left it on overnight once, hoping something—anything—would crackle through. But it never did.
And something about the tower started to feel different. Not the wood or the steel. Not anything he could touch. Just… the space around him. Thinner, maybe. Like he wasn't just above the world anymore, but outside it.
The animals stopped coming.
That got to him more than anything.
No squirrels scratching around the propane tanks. No birds calling in the gray. Even the wind felt dry. Like it blew through a place already forgotten.
He tried not to think about Roy. Tried to believe the guy had made it out, found a signal, gotten to the road. But that image was starting to crack around the edges. Eli could see it when he closed his eyes—Roy halfway down the switchback trail, radio in hand, shoulders hunched like he'd heard something.
He kept telling himself he'd go look. Walk down to the ranger station. Call it a short trip. Just enough to check in and come back.
But each time, he stayed.
Something told him not to. Something deep in his stomach that didn't feel like fear, exactly. Closer to instinct. Like a dog hiding under a porch before the storm hits.
By the end of the week, he had to admit it: he was running out.
The oats were already gone. The last packet of ramen sat unopened on the shelf, like a sick joke. A final dare. He stretched the canned beans as far as he could, scooping out half portions and pretending it helped.
Even the emergency tins were down to scraps. A few crushed crackers. Powdered soup that tasted like salt and plastic.
He'd been foraging too—roots, bitter greens, the occasional mushroom when he was feeling brave. But it wasn't enough. He could feel the drop in his body. Cold more often now. Slower to get up in the morning. Lightheaded if he stood too fast.
The forest didn't help. It was drying up. Even the stream by the north ridge was trickling low, barely enough to fill his canteen after a long boil.
He started counting the food. Not just by can, but by calorie. Doing math in his head every time he swallowed. Trying to figure out how many more mornings he could afford before he'd have to move.
He dreamed about the ranger station. It wasn't far—less than a day, if he cut down through the dry wash and didn't get turned around. But every time he imagined going, something in him buckled. He didn't want to see what was down there. He wasn't sure he could handle it.
Still, he kept checking the trail map like it would change. Like new paths might appear if he just stared hard enough.
But maps didn't lie.
And neither did hunger.
That afternoon, he made peace with it.
Not with the world—he didn't know what peace with that would even look like—but with the decision. He was going to leave.
He didn't have much of a choice. It wasn't courage that pushed him there. It was the math. The way the cans stopped clinking when he shook the box. The way his legs wobbled on the stairs. The way the forest, once humming, now just felt hollow.
Still, he wanted one last night. A final ritual. A pretend normal.
He cleaned up the tower like he used to on inspection days. Folded the extra blankets. Brushed the dirt from the floorboards. Stacked the logbooks. Wiped down the counters with a rag soaked in boiled stream water. He even set out his cup and made tea—or what passed for it. Pine needles steeped in water until it turned a bitter green.
When the sun dipped low and the sky bruised over, he sat in his cot, cradling the mug and staring out the window. No fire on the horizon tonight. No flashes. Just clouds, thick and slow-moving.
He watched until it got dark, then laid down in his cot and tried not to think too hard.
And he tried, but he didn't sleep well.
Too much on his mind. Every creak of the tower felt louder than usual. Every gust of wind dragged across the walls like something looking in.
But when the gray light finally broke through the windows, he sat up without hesitation.
There was no more putting it off.
He moved slow. Not because he wanted to savor it, but because he didn't know how to say goodbye. To the cot. To the stove. To the radio, long dead and silent on the desk. To the four walls that had kept him safe when the sky turned red.
He packed with care. A small rucksack, mostly empty. The last of the canned beans, a few purifying tablets, half a sleeve of crushed crackers in a zip bag. A multipurpose tool. His binoculars. The trail map, folded and re-folded until the creases were soft as cloth. A compass, the old kind with a bubble in the glass. Matches. A firestarter. A flashlight with dying batteries. The fire lookout's weather logbook—he took that too, for some reason. Maybe just to write in. Maybe to remember.
He layered up, even though the morning was warm. Took his ranger coat from the peg by the door and slung it over his shoulder.
Last thing he did was climb the stairs to the upper platform one more time. The sun was just coming up over the tree line. The valley stretched below, wide and still. Somewhere out there was Roy's station. And the town beyond that. And beyond that… whatever was left.
He stared a long time. Not for answers. Just to remember.
Then he turned, descended the tower for the last time, and started down the mountain trail.
He followed the trail down through the trees, not quite walking fast, not quite dragging his feet either. Just moving. The woods looked like they always had. Pine needles underfoot, crows somewhere distant. A breeze that sounded like it should.
It helped. That quiet, that sameness. Like the world hadn't slipped entirely.
He stopped at a downed log, took a sip from his canteen, let the weight of his pack shift against his back. He glanced behind him once—just once—toward the tower. Couldn't see it through the trees now. That was fine. Probably better.
The path curved east, toward the ridge line. From there, it was downhill. The ranger station waited somewhere beyond that. And if Roy wasn't there—if the place was empty, or worse.
No. He cut that thought off.
One step at a time.
The sun had shifted by the time he reached the ridge—late morning, maybe. Hard to tell anymore. His watch had fogged and quit two weeks ago.
He paused at the overlook. From here, the forest opened wide below, a sprawl of treetops running like waves toward the horizon. The smoke trails he'd seen days ago were gone. Just sky now. Clear and cold.
He scanned for any movement—birds, animals, even a plane. Nothing. Just wind through the needles and the slow creak of trees settling.
He didn't stay long.
The descent past the ridge was rockier, the trail thinner. Branches clawed at his sleeves, and loose stone shifted underfoot. He moved carefully—more from habit than fear. This was the kind of terrain he and Roy used to joke about. "Break an ankle out here and the forest gets to keep you."
Eli kept his weight low, his steps steady.
By the time the trees began thinning near the station's access path, his legs were aching, and the pack straps had dug raw lines across his shoulders.
He could see the ranger station now—just a slant of rooftop between trees. Closer than it had felt.
He didn't rush.
He just kept walking.
The path leveled out a little as he neared the station. Gravel crunched underfoot—old maintenance track, probably laid down years ago, now half-eaten by weeds. Familiar enough, but it made him uneasy all the same. Not because something felt wrong, just because it should've felt more right.
He passed the rusted trail sign. Still standing, still pointing in three directions, one of them toward the fire tower. He ran a hand across the surface as he passed, more out of ritual than anything. The paint had flaked down to bare metal.
As the trees gave way, the station came into view in full: low roof, green paneling faded to a sickly gray, and that wide porch Roy always sat on in the evenings, mug in hand.
No sign of Roy.
No sign of anyone.
But no sign of disaster either. The place wasn't burned, or broken into, or wrecked. Just… still.
A wind moved through the clearing, brushing dry grass in waves. Somewhere off to the left, a jay screeched once and went quiet.
Eli stopped at the edge of the treeline.
He could walk up. Knock. Call out, even if that felt stupid. But for now, he just watched. Waited, like the station might blink first.
It didn't.
He veered off the main path and circled wide through the brush, keeping low. It felt a little paranoid, but he didn't want to walk up blind. Not after everything.
The side yard was overgrown. Tall grass up to his knees, patches of wild mint choking the old propane tanks. A wheelbarrow lay on its side under the station's eaves, half-filled with rainwater and dead leaves. No footprints. No tire tracks.
He moved behind the shed next—Roy's old workbench still sat under the awning, tools hung neat and untouched on the pegboard. A chipped mug rested beside a coil of paracord. It had "HIS" stenciled on the side, like part of a matching set.
A few feet away, a pair of boots sat tucked beneath a folding chair. Perfectly aligned.
He paused.
Everything looked… kept. Not freshly used, not recently touched, but not abandoned either. Like Roy had stepped inside to grab something and just never came back out.
He checked the woodshed. Full. Firewood stacked to the rafters, like someone had prepped for a long season. The pile hadn't been picked over.
Nothing scavenged. Nothing stolen.
It was too intact.
He circled back toward the front, this time stepping out into the open. Gravel crunched again under his boots—he didn't try to hide the sound. If someone was in there, they knew by now.
The front door stood shut. Curtains drawn.
He took the porch steps slow.
He reached the top step, hand hovering near the doorknob, when something caught his eye off to the left—just past the railing, half-hidden in the windblown leaves.
A shape. Small. White.
He crouched.
It was a paper plate. One of the flimsy ones they kept stacked in the mess kit bin. And on it, a crusted ring of something red—soup maybe, or sauce—dried and flaking in the wind. Next to it, a plastic spoon stuck upright in the dirt like someone had planted it there.
He stood and followed the direction the spoon pointed, like some dumb compass.
Another plate lay near the base of the stairs, almost buried. Then a crumpled napkin, greasy with something dark.
He scanned the clearing. The pattern wasn't neat. It was scattered, like it had been left in a rush—or worse, ignored for days.
The last thing he spotted was the chair. One of those plastic patio ones, sun-bleached and split down the back, facing out toward the tree line. A flannel jacket draped across its arm, stiff with old rain.
He walked over.
The sleeves were empty.
No bugs. No smell. Just the faint scent of mildew, clinging like something left out too long.
The jacket was Roy's.
Eli turned to the door again.
Something pressed behind his ribs. Not fear exactly—just a tightening, like a breath he couldn't finish.
He gripped the knob.
Cold metal. Familiar shape. Every time he'd opened this door before, Roy had been inside—cursing about the coffee, or muttering about the damn squirrels, or sitting at the little desk pretending he didn't see Eli come in.
Eli turned it slowly. No creak. Just the soft catch of the latch releasing.
The door swung inward.
Light spilled in behind him, catching dust in the air.
It was quiet.
Not the wrong kind of quiet. Just… still. Like no one had been here in a long time.
The place hadn't been ransacked. It hadn't been touched. Everything was in the same spots as he remembered. The cot by the window. The radio on the desk. The little table with two mismatched mugs still sitting beside it.
But no Roy.
No dishes in the sink. No boots near the door. No signs of anyone coming or going.
Eli stepped inside.
The air was stale. Dry. He crossed to the desk and ran his fingers along the surface. Dust lifted in a trail. No recent use.
The radio was off.
He reached for it—almost on reflex—but stopped. It felt wrong to turn it on. Like waking a body.
Instead, he moved to the cot. It was made. Sloppy, but made. The kind of half-effort Roy always gave when he was in a rush. Blanket pulled up, pillow indented.
Still warm?
No. Just sun-heated.
Eli sat down.
All around him, the tower stood still. Just a room again. Not a post. Not a safe spot. Just four walls waiting for someone who hadn't come back.
He looked down at the floor. A pair of socks crumpled under the edge of the bed. One of them had a hole near the toe.
He didn't know why that got him.
But it did.
He then crossed to the cabinet near the back wall, tugged the door open.
Old maps, a roll of toilet paper, a nearly empty box of water purification tablets. A crumpled parka stuffed on the top shelf. No note. No explanation.
He kept going.
Drawer by drawer, shelf by shelf. Looking for… what, exactly? A clue? Proof Roy was still out there? Proof he wasn't?
In the corner near the door, half-covered by a folded tarp and a pair of worn-out snowshoes, he found a hard plastic case. Locked with a simple latch. No markings.
Eli crouched and popped it open.
Inside, nestled in gray foam, was a compact lever-action rifle.
Not military. Nothing dramatic. Just the kind of thing a backwoods ranger might keep around for bears or coyotes—practical, short-range, and beat-up as hell. The finish was scratched along the receiver, and the buttstock looked like it had been taped back together at some point.
But it was clean. Maintained.
And it was loaded.
Eli stared at it for a long moment before reaching in.
It felt… weird in his hands. Heavy in the wrong places. But not impossible.
He held it like Roy had showed him, once—half-joking during a slow day. Elbows in. Barrel down unless you mean it. Respect the recoil or lose a tooth.
Eli slid the case aside and sat on the edge of the cot again, the rifle across his lap.
And then, like it slipped out before he knew it was coming, Eli let out a low breath and muttered,
"Goddamn, Roy… thanks."
His voice cracked on the last word—hoarse, unused. It sounded strange in the stillness, like it didn't quite belong. But he didn't take it back.
For the first time in days, something inside him let go. Just a little.