Requiem for a Soldier (Requiem #1)

Chapter 3: Concessions

March 28

Tayja

I look out the big window in the living room. At the treeline, I see Ryan trying to chop one down. It's not going particularly well for him. I've never watched someone fell a tree, but I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to take twenty minutes.

He's definitely not an old man. Despite his injuries, he still seems to have plenty of power behind his swings and a surprising amount of energy. His coordination, however, certainly leaves something to be desired. He said he'd been injured in Afghanistan, so how old would that make him? If I remember history right, the war in Afghanistan started after 9/11, so he's probably no older than mid-fifties. That's still old enough to be my father.

Ryan stops and drops the ax. I'm startled out of my thoughts. Is he finally going to give up? He stands still for several long seconds, just staring at the tree he's been hacking away at. He turns toward the cabin and I duck behind the curtain instinctively. When I hazard a peek, he has turned back to the tree. His left hand comes up over his head and pulls the ski mask off. Thick, wavy brown hair tumbles out. His hair is long for a man, just brushing the tops of his shoulders. I stare at the back of his head. Definitely not an old man. He picks up the ax and resumes his assault on the tree. I wonder what his face looks like. The look of his hair puts me more in mind of my original impression of his age. Late twenties, early thirties, maybe?

I touch my own hair, which is greasy and smells funky. I decide a shower is definitely in order. At last, the tree gives up and falls, I suspect out of pity. Ryan looks down at it, his chest heaving. He begins to hack at the limbs. I turn away from the window, walking to the little bathroom between the living room and bedroom and lock myself in, grateful this cabin has running water and indoor plumbing.

When I've finished my shower and dried the underthings I washed in the shower with me, I slip on some clean clothes. His jeans are much too long for me, but the improvised cuff I folded seems to be holding well and the belt keeps the pants from becoming a puddle around my ankles. The plaid shirt I'm wearing also sports rolled sleeves. I tied it just below the waist to keep it from looking overly long and loose. My curly hair is loose and gloriously clean, finally free of the wild knots it had developed after a week of no washing. It's still very damp, but unfortunately, there's not much to be done about that without a hairdryer. My hair falls past my waist when wet and takes hours to dry naturally.

Hungry again, I decide to make my own breakfast. While I poke around the kitchen, looking for food, Ryan enters and wordlessly walks to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. I hear the shower begin running momentarily.

By the time Ryan has emerged from the bathroom, ski mask back in place, a delicious stack of pancakes is sitting on the table. Flipping the last two, I turn and smile at him, proud of my small accomplishment. I've never made pancakes without a recipe before, but I think I've done pretty well. He stops short in the hall to the living room and stares at me, clearly surprised. I smile wider.

"Hungry? I made breakfast," I say, gesturing to the table.

He looks from me to the pancakes, then back to me again. He resumes staring at me and I start to wonder if something's wrong.

"Don't you like pancakes?"

He blinks and looks back at the table. "Yes," he says, and sits at the far end. He picks up one of the plates I set out earlier and begins to load pancakes onto it. I turn back to the two in the frying pan.

"Thank you," he says abruptly.

"You're welcome," I say, smiling to myself. As the last two pancakes turn golden brown, I hear him puttering about at the table, then a loud clang. I place the pancakes on the stack and look at him. The clang was his loaded fork landing on his plate. I feel my eyebrows furrow in confusion.