Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
I beamed. “Amazing! A little soaking time would be great right now.”
They said nothing, not one thing. And that’s when it occurred to me—I might’ve very seriously misunderstood the assignment.
Seven hours later…
We left the ranch just before sundown. Marcus had handed me a reusable grocery bag filled with travel snacks, water, and what might have been the entire aloe vera shelf from their bathroom. I’d already slathered myself up like a greased lobster in hopes of my skin not blistering mid-drive, but the supply would come in handy, given that this sunburn would likely take a few days to calm down.
Webb didn’t say much on the way out. He just loaded up the truck, opened the passenger door, and gave me a look that said, 'Don't make me regret this.' So I didn’t. I got in and stayed quiet. Cooperative. Graceful, even if I daresay.
Or at least I was until we hit the first pothole.
My teeth clicked together like a wind-up toy, and I grabbed the door handle in a white-knuckled grip. “Jesus Christ,” I gasped. “What's this road paved with, regret and craters?”
Webb smirked slightly. “You wanted rustic.”
“Rustic, yes. I didn't sign up for spinal realignment via truck suspension.”
“No refunds,” he shot back, his eyes never leaving the road.
The sun dipped lower, casting long golden fingers across the backwoods highway. We passed exactly zero other cars, three signs warning about bears, and one suspiciously human-shaped scarecrow that I swear tracked me with its button eyes.
“How much farther is it?” I mean, we were now in Mississippi. How much farther did we need to go?
Webb didn’t even glance at me. “Hour. Maybe more.”
“Is there, like, plumbing?” Looking around us at what was available, it was a pertinent question.
He shrugged. “Depends on your definition.”
“Oh god.” He didn’t answer—God or Webb.
When we finally turned off the main road—and by "main," I mean a barely-there strip of cracked asphalt—I had a sinking feeling in my gut.
That sinking feeling deepened when we got out of the truck, and I followed him on a trail that led to the cabin, where I caught a glimpse of it through the moonlight.
And I say “cabin” generously. It was more like a glorified shack with wood paneling and emotional damage. The porch tilted, and the roof sagged slightly in the middle like it was tired of existing. The windows were the small, warped kind that let you look out but definitely didn’t let light in. I could see a stovepipe on one side and what might have been an outdoor shower stall hidden behind a clump of trees.
“This is it?” I whispered, hoping he was just pointing out a cabin with an interesting story before we got to the real one.
“This is it,” Webb confirmed, dropping what he was carrying on the ground. “No one will find you here.”
“No one wants to find me here,” I muttered.
He climbed onto the porch without saying anything, leaving me standing there a moment longer, just staring at it.
No cell towers. No neighbors. No sign of civilization. I wouldn't be surprised if Banjos started playing right then and there, but I'd do my best to run to the nearest big city for help for Webb.
“Jacuzzi, my ass,” I said under my breath, then followed him inside to meet my fate.
Webb walked past me, grabbed a bag from the pile, and handed it to me like a warning. I looked around again, squinting at the trees, the shadows, the general sense of, oh no, you’re going to be living with spiders now.
I sighed. “Okay, I can do this, I’m totally adaptable. I’ve watched Survivor. I can eat moss or whatever.”
Webb opened the door and glanced over his shoulder. “There’s food in the pantry. You don’t need to eat any moss. In fact, it's best that you don't.”
Noted.
By the time my vision adjusted enough to see the inside of the cabin, my confidence had officially left the building—along with any remaining illusion that this was going to be some kind of charming off-grid hideaway.
I had questions. Webb had answers. None of them were good.
“So,” I began cautiously, “what’s the, uh... plumbing situation?”
He continued walking through the dark rooms, not hitting anything, whereas I was bouncing off furniture with every step. “There isn’t one.”
I stopped walking. “What?”
“No plumbing, we use a well. The water’s clean, cold, and comes out of a hand pump by the shed.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered, my worries coming true.
“There are also buckets in the corner that you can take to your room,” he added helpfully. “You’ll figure it out.”
I blinked at the back of his head, unsure whether to scream or laugh or just run into the woods and let nature take me.
“And the actual toilet?” I asked, mostly just to torture myself at this point.
Webb turned, deadpan. “Oh, that’s out back. Don't worry, there's a wooden stall, but don’t go out there barefoot.”