Rachel Hawkins - Grim

“I’m Hansen—”

“And I’m Greta,” I finish, hoping he doesn’t hear that my stomach is already growling as we maneuver through a doorway and find ourselves standing in an enormous kitchen.

It has to be the biggest room in the house. On one wall, there’s a giant fireplace made from stone, and in front of it is a round table with mismatched chairs that look like they were hand carved. Whittled. In the center of the table there’s a vase filled with the same purple flowers that line the walkway to the cabin.

“You kids hungry?” he asks, and I realize he never told us his name. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s already pulling plates down from a cupboard and filling each one with the juiciest, most mouthwateringly perfect steaks I’ve ever laid eyes on. I realize that’s what we must’ve smelled, and I wonder, just for the briefest moment before my appetite gets the best of me as I watch the juices pool around the seared meat, why he has so many of them. He cuts thick slices from a loaf of bread that still steams, and sets a plate in front of each of us.

I want to be polite, and I try to think of something to say—some way to express my gratitude, something coherent and thoughtful—but instead my stomach rumbles and I can’t wait any longer. My knife slides through the steak and I shovel a huge bite into my mouth, already cutting a second piece.

Hansen grins at me, and I know what he’s thinking. I know because I’m thinking it, too. Thank god we found this place. Thank god this guy has enough food to feed an army.

The ranger goes to the cupboard and then ladles something from a pan simmering on his stove. “Here,” he says, setting a mug in front of me. “Spiced cider. I made it myself.”

“Thanks,” I mumble through a full mouth. The steak is good, although it’s kinda hard to tell since it’s so overseasoned. There’re a lot of herbs on the outside—the dude probably has a garden where he picks them fresh. There’s something gritty on the outside—probably cracked pepper—that stings my tongue. Right now, I’d eat a slug on a stick, so the pepper’s not so bad.

I stop inhaling my food long enough to glance at Hansen, and see that he’s reaching for his cider. He swallows down one giant gulp, and then another.

I try mine, too, and it’s almost sickly sweet. Still, all that sugar doesn’t stop me from taking another sip, and another.

The man sits across from Hansen, watching him eat. “Everything okay?” he asks, checking on me, too.

We both nod in tandem, like good little dinner guests.

“Good,” he says in his deep voice, his rangery voice, and I feel warm all over. The food is really getting to me, and suddenly I realize how tired I am. “After dinner, we’ll get you two all squared away. How’s that sound?”

It sounds great, and I open my mouth to say so, just as I see Hansen’s eyelids start to flutter. My eyelids want to close, too, but I force them to stay open. My head is all of a sudden heavy, too heavy, maybe, for my neck. My rubbery neck that doesn’t seem like it should be holding up anything.

My chin bobs forward, and I’m surprised when I feel it smack against my chest. The shock of it, of that action, causes me to jerk upright again.

“I’m glad you found me,” the ranger continues, his voice now sounding watery, wavy. Warbly. “Some fates are better’n others.”

And then my vision goes black and my face crashes onto my plate.

My first attempt to speak sounds less like a word and more like a grunt, like I’m a wounded bear or a dog, and my throat aches from the effort I put into it. At first I think I should just give up. It’s too hard, I think, because it is. It really, really is.

But then I consider my brother, and I try again, willing my voice to be stronger, clearer this time. “Han—Hansen?” It’s a croak, but it’s good. Better.

I open my eyes, which is also harder than it should be, and I can’t see right away. After a moment my vision clears.

And I wish that it hadn’t.

It’s a mistake is my first coherent thought, and I blink several times when I realize it’s not my eyesight that’s messed up, it’s the situation.

I’m in a cage. Wire mesh surrounds me, the kind of enclosure you see at pet stores or dog pounds.

I reach for the door, but it’s been secured with the thick strip of a zip tie, and I know I’m trapped inside of it.

I can get on only my hands and knees inside the cramped space, and I might be able to turn all the way around if I roll my shoulders, or maybe if I was double-jointed, which I’m not. I can’t stop thinking about Hansen, and I wonder where the hell he is, where that effing ranger has taken him, because I’m sure the crazy asshole has him. Somewhere. Maybe caged, like me.

And I’ve got to find him.

“Hey! Help!” I shout. I worry briefly about knocking the cage over, because it’s on a table or a bench, or something off the ground that I can’t see because it’s underneath me, but I shake and rattle the cage as hard as I can until my fingers feel raw where they’re wrapped, like claws, around the wire. It’s no good, though; the metal is sturdier than I thought it would be, and it won’t bend or even flex no matter how hard I try. “Someone help me! Let me out of here!”

This goes on for a while, the yelling, until I’m sweaty and exhausted, which seems like it happens way too soon, but maybe that’s because I was drugged. I’m sure that’s what happened, anyway. Ranger Dude must’ve drugged us, either the food or that “spiced” cider he gave us. The cider I chugged like it was liquid candy. Or maybe I’m just so damned tired because my head is still aching from a gross lack of caffeine and not nearly enough nicotine....

And then suddenly it hits me, like a lightning bolt. And I wish I was double-jointed. It would make it so much easier to find out if I still have my cigarettes.

I know it seems like a shitty time for a smoke, and it totally is. I’d be the worst sister in the world if I were jonesing for a cigarette so bad that I’d rather take a drag than find a way out of this mess. But here’s the deal—I think that is my way out.

Not my cigarettes...my lighter.

So I frantically contort, slamming my elbow against the metal walls until the thin fabric of my hoodie tears and the skin beneath scrapes...ripping until I actually feel blood trickle down my arm. But I can’t afford to stop and check it out, even if I could somehow twist my arm around so I could see it. I ignore the sting and thrust my fingers clumsily toward my pocket, panting because they’re almost there, just beneath the edge of the denim. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my own ears.

My fingertips brush something, and I think—I think!—it might be the crumpled pack containing the one last cigarette I’d been saving. But that’s not what I’m after.

I need that lighter. My gold-plated birthday gift. If I can get it...if I can just reach it...it just might save my ass.

Tears gather in my eyes—tears of frustration and sheer determination—as I desperately try to coax the pack higher...higher in my pocket...sliding it little by little with my fingertips. When it’s high enough that the pad of my index finger is finally inside of it, I let out a gasp. It’s within my reach, and I give one more tug before I know, for sure, that I’ve done it.

My fingers—all of them—close around the plastic-coated package, and I squeeze my eyes shut, releasing a sigh that almost sounds like a giggle.

If Hansen were here, he’d give me a ration of shit for being such a girl.

I don’t care, though, because I have every intention of saving him, and I might never care if he makes fun of me again. I might never care if he borrows my crap or reads my texts or makes out with one of my friends after she drinks too much at a party ever again. I just want my little brother. Alive.