The threat sounded real. I backed away and returned to my stirring.
We ate standing at the kitchen counter, sharing soup from mismatched bowls. It was simple food and probably the first meal we'd shared without checking windows or calculating escape routes.
Dorian finished his soup and set the bowl aside. "What a tidy little apocalypse hideout—with board games."
I laughed. "That's James's contribution. He insists on backup entertainment for when Marcus finishes inspecting the solar panels and checking the perimeter." I rinsed our bowls in the small sink. "Apparently, even wilderness retreats need structured activities."
The rain intensified outside. I listened to the steady rhythm while a knot in my chest began to unwind.
Dorian returned to the fireplace and settled into one of Marcus's hand-hewn chairs.
I found blankets in a cedar chest and offered one to him. He was in the chair closest to the door, and I took the other, stretching my legs toward the heat.
Tea for him and coffee for me. Steam rose from our mugs in lazy spirals.
I broke the silence by sharing an old story. "Might as well get to know the family better. Miles tried to teach a CPR class when he was ten. Found a plastic dummy in Dad's gear, dragged it to the backyard, and announced he was opening McCabe Medical Academy."
Dorian's attention shifted from the fire to me, one eyebrow raised.
"Charged the neighborhood kids fifty cents for certification courses. Had them lined up around the block. Marcus made official-looking certificates on the computer. I got recruited as the guy who pretended to drown in the kiddie pool so Miles could demonstrate a water rescue."
I sipped my coffee, remembering the chaos of that summer afternoon. "Problem was, Miles had been watching Dad practice on the dummy, but he'd missed some crucial details. He spent twenty minutes teaching eight-year-olds to perform chest compressions on the victim's stomach."
Dorian chuckled softly.
"Mrs. Patterson from next door called Dad at the station when she found her grandson trying to save his perfectly healthy little sister by giving her stomach compressions while she was eating a popsicle. Dad came home to discover chaos—kids chasing each other around the yard, insisting they needed to practice lifesaving techniques on anyone who would hold still long enough."
A genuine laugh escaped Dorian. It seemed to surprise him as much as it pleased me.
"Your brother's confidence sounds dangerous." He settled deeper into his chair.
"Miles never met a situation he couldn't improve with enthusiasm and questionable expertise. He's still like that." I watched the firelight play across Dorian's features. "Your turn."
"My turn for what?"
"Story. Something from before all this. Before running and before Hoyle." I gestured vaguely at the cabin around us. "Something normal."
Dorian stared back into the fire, fingers wrapped around his mug. When he spoke, his voice was smoother and less guarded than I'd heard yet.
"I spent three weeks as a youth group leader in Vermont. I was a summer camp counselor for kids whose parents wanted them to experience wholesome outdoor activities." He paused and smiled briefly.
The fire crackled, sending new shadows dancing across the cabin walls.
"In the second week, I helped lead a canoe trip down the Connecticut River. Twelve kids, six canoes, and I pretended I knew something about wilderness navigation." Dorian tucked the blanket closer around his chin. "Everything was going perfectly until we stopped for lunch on a little island."
"Let me guess—not actually an island?"
"Oh, it was an island. But it was also home to the most aggressive colony of hornets I've ever encountered." He shifted in his chair, and the blanket slipped from his shoulders. "I was setting up sandwiches and giving my prepared speech about Leave No Trace principles, when Tommy—eight years old, gap-toothed, and built like a linebacker—decided to investigate what he called the angry buzzing tree."
I pictured it: A younger Dorian desperately trying to maintain his cover while chaos erupted around him.
"Hornets attacked like we'd declared war. Kids screaming, canoes drifting away from shore, and me diving into river water cold enough to stop my heart to avoid getting stung into anaphylactic shock." He laughed—genuine and unguarded.
"Glad to know you survived the experience."
"Barely. Had to explain to twelve sets of parents why their children came home covered in mud and talking about Mr. Dorian's legendary hornet war."
When the laughter faded, we sat in comfortable quiet. Rain continued its assault on the windows. The cabin felt smaller and more intimate.
