I opened the front door of the house and a wave of an amalgamation of spices assaulted my nose. The door clicked closed behind me and I dropped my bag in the corner next to the door with a heavy thud. I could see my father’s profile from the edge of my vision in the next room. “Hey dad, I’m home.”

“First day went well, I see!” My father beamed down at me, oven mitts and apron on, in his grasp a tray of what looked to be his latest kitchen experiment still piping hot from the stone oven. “Need help with that?” He stuck out his chin in gesture towards my arm.

I lifted the bandage off and held my arm up, showing it’d stopped bleeding already. The spot was agitated and a little inflamed, but the brownish-red stain on the underside of the bandage was crusted over. “Thanks, dad, I got it though. What’s that?”

“I was expecting you home a little later, but I’ve been trying out this new recipe.” I poked my head in the open archway to the left, into the kitchen, and spotted at least three mixing bowls covered in crusty, doughy remains and flour coating most of the kitchen’s surfaces. The left side of the room housed cabinets and the oven. A stone slab countertop that was detached from the rest of the kitchen served as an extra workspace in that half of the room. The right side of the room had a woven rug beneath a wide wooden table where we ate dinner. The countertop had mounds of dough in various stages of cooked in different piles that spilled into one another. I didn’t see any discernable system for which ones went into which piles; there were burnt ones and gooey ones and ones that looked like all the moisture had been sucked straight out of them. The most suspicious ones were those that LOOKED normal, edible.

I grinned at his childlike excitement. “Were you trying to feed the whole town?”

“I’ve perfected the taste, I think. The consistency is pretty tricky, though. I’ve been trying to adjust cook times on it but can’t seem to get it quite right.” I approached the workstation and plucked a relatively normal looking one from the bunch, then held it up to examine it. It was a soft golden colored dough that looked like some sort of cookie, but the top had a depression in it with bright red goo that resembled a berry preserve. I lifted it to my nose to smell, and dad immediately reached out a gloved hand and swatted it out of my grasp. It sailed halfway across the room, smacked into a cabinet, and broke into pieces on the floor.

I looked over at him, stunned and dumbfounded. “I thought you were going to try to eat it. Wouldn’t recommend that.” He turned back to the tray in his hands. “These, though…I’ve a good feeling about this batch.” For a moment he held out the tray to me, but then thought better of it and recoiled. “You uh…might want to wash your hands before you eat anything. And don’t rub your eyes.” He paused and pursed his lips, thinking. “Just…don’t touch anything until you clean them off.”

I narrowed my eyes at him and went to wash my hands. I used my elbows to awkwardly prime the little hand pump in the kitchen sink and felt the pressure increase as water made its way up the line and finally splashed down into the basin. I grabbed the bar of coarse soap from next to the faucet and scrubbed my hands and wrists vigorously. I searched for a towel to dry them off, hands in the air and water dripping down my arms into my sleeves. I spotted one on the table at the other end of the room and plopped down into one of the wooden chairs as I dried my hands and arms off. “So what’s all this for, anyway?” My father had busied himself in the meantime, sweeping piles of cookies into a bucket to be tossed out.

“Well I thought it would be a nice surprise for you after your first day out there! We’re so proud of you!” We. I tried to ignore it because I didn’t feel like getting into a debate about it right now. I didn’t understand how my dad kept a positive outlook about everything, and I wasn’t sure if it was just willful ignorance or strength. We hadn’t seen or heard from…No. I wasn’t going to let myself go there, either. Not today. Instead, I held out my arms and my dad put the bucket down. I felt his strong arms wrap around me. As long as I could remember, his towering figure and strong arms protected me from everything. Now that I’d passed my test and going off on my own, he’d be alone here.

“I love you, dad.”

“To the moon and back, kiddo.” He released me and straightened up. “Alright. Want to try one of these?” The tray was on the table already.

“Absolutely, but you have to tell me what it is first.” I held up my hands to show him the skin of my palm, rubbed raw and bright red. “Have you ever considered work as a master of poisons?”

We sat and talked, ate shortbread cookies with jam—he still wouldn’t tell me what kind and I couldn’t guess—and discussed my first day. I told him about how exciting it was, about the squirrel and losing my knife, to which he laughed heartily. I struggled with whether to tell him about my panic attack because I didn’t know how he’d react.

Before either of us knew it, we’d eaten almost the entire tray of cookies. Dad looked down in bewilderment, brought a hand to his face and chuckled. “Should have made you eat dinner first.”

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Belly bloated, I leaned back in my chair and pat my stomach. “I don’t think I could eat anything else right now.”

“You need to keep your strength up if you’re going to be out every day. Have to watch what you’re eating to make sure your body has the fuel it needs.”

“I really couldn’t eat anything else right now. But I’ll gladly take something with me tomorrow when I go out.”

“I’m glad you’re going back out so soon. Don’t let one bad day ruin the experience for you. You worked hard for this.” He put a hand on my head and tousseled my hair.

“Let me help you finish cleaning up, at least?” I asked, grinning at him. He had a way of lifting someone’s mood that was infectious and endearing.

He shook his head at me and pushed his end of the bench back away from the table. I was resting my elbow on the edge of the table while we talked, starting to get tired and already sore from the day. The shift of the bench caused my elbow to slide off the table and my chin was centimeters from smacking into the hardwood table before I was able to right myself. “I think it’s best if you leave this to me tonight. Go wash up and try to get a good night’s sleep. If you’re going out in the morning again, you’ll need it. I’ll start the water for you.” He busied himself pumping water into a pitcher, making it look so effortless.

“Alright dad, I love you. Thanks again.”

On the way from the kitchen to my bedroom, I anxiously balled my hands up and they felt…off. I looked down at them and my palms had begun to swell up with the oddest sensation, almost like I was feeling them through thick gloves. My clothes felt…gross. I could feel the heaviness of dried sweat and dirt on them.

My room was small, but I liked it. There was room for my bed and a bookcase with a few volumes on it, but the rest of the shelf space was taken up by a variety of trinkets or things I’d made as a kid. There was an empty wicker basket on the wall next to the door. I peeled off my socks, which were probably the cleanest thing I had on at the moment, and folded them over before dropping them into the basket. My bed was centered on the left wall of the room, and between it and the closer wall, in the corner, was a nightstand with a single drawer that had a small, unlit oil lamp on it.

It was starting to get dark outside. The shadows cast from the large tree outside my window looked almost menacing. In late spring it would be full of little pink and white flowers and smell fruity and soothing, but for now the fingerlike branches were still mostly barren. Before it got too dark, I reached into the nightstand drawer and found the box of matches rattling around in there, picked one out, and struck it against the edge of the drawer. It flared up and then steadied while I removed the bell-shaped glass cover of the lamp and lit the cloth wick. I blew out the match, replaced the cover, and heard a knock on the door.

“Are you decent?” My dad asked from the other side.

I opened the door and my father was standing there holding a large silver pitcher I could see steam rising out of. Under his other arm was a dinged up metal basin and a washcloth. “You didn’t have to bring all that here. I was going to come grab it myself in a moment. But thanks, dad.”

“Just because you’re old enough to for the brand doesn’t mean you’re not still my little one, you got that?” He narrowed his eyes at me and deepened his voice, but was still smiling.

“Yes, sir. Well thank you. I’m probably going to wash up and then call it a night. I’ll be gone by the time you wake up. I’ll be home before dark if I can help it, though.” I threaded my arms around his waist and under his laden arms and hugged him tightly. He handed me the items and said good night.

“Sleep well.”

“Love you, dad.”

“To the moon and back, kiddo.”

Once he was gone I latched the door shut and peeled the rest of my filthy clothes off. They went into the basket to keep my socks company, and I went to work scrubbing the grime off my skin. I was careful with my arm and chose to wring out the hot cloth and dab at the wound rather than scrub it raw. I put the lot of it on top of the low bookshelf when I was done. The temperature was starting to drop again now that the sun was set. The hairs on my body prickled in the cold air while I rummaged in the trunk at the foot of my bed for some undergarments to put on. I didn’t own much in the way of clothes, but I took good care of them. I didn’t much see the point in having a ton of clothes to have to wash, when I could get away with having less but keeping it neat and clean.

Alone, at the bottom of the trunk beneath a spare blanket for my bed and an outfit from when I was little we’d held onto for sentimental purposes, I spotted the leather belt I’d held onto since long before I was big enough to use it. It was complicated, with little hidden pouches and fasteners, more of a hip sling than a belt. It probably would have been useful out in the wilderness today, but on principle I’d left behind. It really was beautiful, though. I couldn’t even count the number of times I’d laid in bed at night and traced my fingers over the design. Lost in thought, I realized I’d been making the shapes in the air with my index finger and angrily slammed the trunk shut again. I knew eventually I’d have to come to terms with it, handle my resentment and bitterness, but it wasn’t a conversation I was ready to have with anyone, including myself.

I’m not sure how much I even slept that night. All I could think about was wanting to get back out to the forest, find my dagger, and explore. I was excited to get back out there and angry for leaving my only weapon….somewhere…in the forest. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure where I’d been; I’d just sort of picked a direction and started wandering around. I hadn’t noted any landmarks or anything.

I didn’t have the first clue how to retrace my steps. I did remember where I’d entered the wilderness, though, and that would be my first step. I laid in bed trying to recall the details of the route I’d taken. I vaguely remembered the angled, flat rock I’d stopped at to soak up the warmth of the morning sunlight. That’s where I saw it. I didn’t think I’d have a chance to track the squirrel alone, but I hadn’t exactly been stealthy while trampling through the forest after it and might be able to follow my own ill-concealed tracks. I fell into a restless sleep that night with the sting of my arm and the burning sensation on my palm keeping me from getting truly comfortable.