I awoke the next morning and dragged myself out of bed. As I made myself some instant oatmeal, curtesy of the camp store, I decided that since I was going to be here for a little while, I should probably start poking around the out-buildings to see if there was anything I could use to make my life easier for the time being.

I dressed and stepped quietly outside, listening hard for anything that sounded out of the ordinary. After a few tense moments, I took a deep breath and walked toward the tool shed.

My steps sounded loud in my ears and I considered going back inside, but I stuck my chin out and kept walking. I would never make it back home if I didn't suck it up and get to work, but the deer incident from the day before sat heavy in my chest. The fact was that the forest was full of animals, and some of those animals could very well kill me if they wanted to, but I had a stash of bear spray and a good selection of hunting knives at my disposal, again, curtesy of the camp store. Worried as I was about being outside, I didn't have any deep gut feelings telling me that it wasn't safe, so I marched up to the door of the shed.

It was locked. Of course it was locked. Would nothing be just easy here? I sighed and looked around for something to use to pry the lock with.

My mind immediately went to the junk drawer. I went in and retrieved a flathead screwdriver and a pair of pliers and got to work. Twenty minutes later I was no closer to getting the lock open and the only thing I had to show for all the work was bent metal. I jammed the screwdriver behind the lever and yanked on it as hard as I could out of pure frustration. The screwdriver slipped out of my grasp and I raked my hand down across the jagged metal. I gasped at the sudden pain and glanced at my palm. It didn't bleed at first, probably because my hands were so cold, and I stared in shock at a deep gash, about three inches long, that ran from the base of my pointer finger diagonally across my left palm. The blood began to well up and I rushed to the water pump to rinse it.

After several minutes of washing, it was still bleeding freely, so I went back into the house and scrounged up some first aid supplies. Sitting down at the table, I soaked my hand in a wound wash solution then tried with shaky hands to close the cut with butterfly bandages. They wouldn't stick.

I needed stitches, not an adhesive bandage. I huffed and tried not to let my frustrated tears fall. I needed to think!

The solution came to me in the form of fuzzy memories from a television show I had watched on summer break my sophomore year. A man had closed a cut on his arm with superglue so the zombies he was trying to escape from wouldn't be able to smell his blood. I laughed bitterly to myself at the thought of even trying such a thing but I didn't have a choice.

Retrieving a new tube of superglue from the camp store, I returned to the kitchen table and struggled to open the package one handed. When it was finally open, I held the thin dropper over my palm. I lightly cupped my injured hand to close the wound, then squeezed several drops of glue onto the cut.

It could have been liquid fire for all that it scorched into the wound, and I hissed, then blew on it, hoping it would dry faster. My palm throbbed and the sharp scent of the glue filled the room.

"Jesus Christ." My voice grated through clenched teeth.

After a few minutes, I gingerly opened my palm. The glue held and I breathed a sigh of relief hoping that it wouldn't get infected. I placed a non-stick gauze pad across my palm and taped it down, then carefully wrapped my entire hand with an elastic bandage.

Rather than continuing the struggle with the shed lock, I went in search of wood for the fireplace. Temperatures hovered just above freezing at night making mornings uncomfortably chilly, even in the house. Behind the carport, under the low eave, I found a large stock of split wood and after a bit more searching, I scrounged up a battered wheelbarrow. I filled it to nearly overflowing then struggled to roll it to the back patio.

By the time I finished with that task, it was well after noon and I cursed inwardly at how much more time it took me to accomplish such an easy task simply because I had injured myself doing something stupid. I would have to be more careful in the future. I couldn't afford to hurt myself again. One wrong move could literally get me killed out here all alone. I decided to rest for the remainder of the day and take the time to warm the house up.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

After having been cold for so many days, as the wood stove began chasing the chill out of the air, I melted into the couch and sighed. My hand still hurt like the devil but I had a belly full of hot soup and a warm fire to relax by. Within minutes, my eyelids fluttered closed and I didn't wake until dawn.

When I pulled myself up off the fluffy couch, I decided that it was going to be a productive and safe day. No injuries, no frustration. Think smart, act smart.

First, I needed something bigger to pry the latch off the tool shed and the first thing my clear, well rested brain thought up was a crowbar. There were none laying around, so I investigated one of the two cars parked under the carport. The keys were inside on the seat. It was a sedan that looked straight out of the 80's with a front bench seat, ash trays in every door, and a cracking vinyl top. Just to be sure, I tried to start it. Nothing happened, so I took the keys and opened the trunk. Removing the spare tire, I pulled out the tire iron and hefted it in my hand. It would do perfectly.

Back at the shed door, with a better tool in hand, I had the latch pried off in a matter of minutes and swung the door open. The shed was filled with hand and gardening tools, lawn equipment and loads of things I had no idea how to use. While rummaging around through one of many metal toolboxes, I found a magnetic hide-a-key box with three keys inside. Scurrying to the back door, I tried one that looked like a house key. It unlatched the deadbolt. The other key was stamped 'MASTER – Do Not Duplicate', so I knew that had to belong to the front, camp store doors. The last key fit the heavy basement door.

I carefully opened it and it groaned on its hinges. Rickety wooden steps appeared to descend into a black pit and I swallowed thickly.

Everyone has an irrational fear of basements, right? I thought to myself while I stood, paralyzed at the entrance staring into the darkness.

Turning on my heel, I went back into the house and slid my new prizes onto the keychain with my own house keys. My lips curled slightly with the ghost of a smile. I suddenly felt a lot less like a squatter. Leaving my bundle of keys hanging on a hook beside the back door, I grabbed my flashlight then returned to the basement door.

"You can do this. There's probably nothing down there but dust and cobwebs." I gave myself a short pep talk before placing my foot on the first step.

It creaked as I settled my weight on it but the step was solid, so I continued down the stairs. At the bottom, I scanned the room with the flashlight. It was a cavernous space, and despite all the dust and cobwebs, it was extremely well organized. Shelving filled more than half the space making isles of a sort. The shelves were filled with boxes of what appeared to be back-stock for the store. The other part of the space looked to be filled with neatly arranged personal items. Large furniture pieces, boxes of clothes and miscellaneous household items and seasonal decorations.

In a wide space toward the middle of the basement sat a home gym that looked like it came straight out of the 80's. A wooden crate was sat just beside the weight bench, looking very out of place. My curiosity piqued; I began making my way over to it when an old camping lantern caught my eye. Now that could be useful.

I detoured and lifted the lantern off the shelf to inspect it. It appeared to be operational, so I leaned in to see what else was on that shelf. Several older tents, sleeping bags and outdoor gear greeted my eager eyes. I almost cheered when I found a camp stove with a set of cast iron cookware beside it and plenty of those little green propane tanks. I knew that however much propane was left in the giant white tank by the carport wouldn't last forever and this camp stove could help stretch that out for a bit longer while I learned how to cook outdoors over a fire.

I shook myself a bit. I needed to get home, not get settled and completely comfortable here. But, still, the set of cast iron cookware deserved to be in the kitchen. It was all my mom cooked with for years and I knew if I used these, it would make me feel closer to her in a way.

Glancing around quickly, I spotted an empty plastic storage tote and filled it with a couple of pieces of the cookware, the camp stove and the lantern. Tiny flashlight in my mouth, I hefted the tote with a grunt and awkwardly moved it to the open space near the home gym. I knew I would have a hard time lifting it back up off the floor, so I waddled to the weight bench, hoping I wouldn't trip over anything, and set it down heavily. Dust curled up in the beam of the flashlight as I removed it from my mouth and glanced down.

Something had been written in the dust on the weight bench.

"Damn-it." I whispered to myself. Having had no contact with anyone in a week, I was getting desperate for some type of communication.

I lifted the tote once again and peered down at the bench. The center of whatever had been written had been smudged away by the tote, but on either side of the smeared square of dust that it left behind, I could make out a handful of letters.

"Be sa— —roy." I looked at it puzzled.

It could have said anything. But who had written it and when? It looked to be fairly recent. Even with the dust that I had stirred up when I set the tote down, the rest of the letters looked fairly fresh. Could it have been from the people who called this place home?

I sighed and set the tote back down on the bench. Whatever it had said was lost.

I decided that I would come back down to take a closer look at the basement later on, but what I really needed was some food.

After cleaning and oiling the cast iron cookware, I placed all the items in the oven and baked them, wondering what Mom would say if she could see me. I quickly heated another can of soup on the stovetop and carried the pan with me to the bookshelf, slurping the hot broth out of a giant wooden spoon.

As I perused the shelf again, my eyes passed over a book about Pacific Northwest wild edibles. Right beside it was a tall, hardcover book with no title on its spine. Sitting the spoon back into the pot, I gingerly reached out with my injured hand and wiggled the book off the shelf. In worn, gold print, the cover read Primitive Survival. I tossed it and the wild edibles book on the couch to read later. Even if I didn't stay here at the camp store, the contents of those books could be pivotal. I knew nothing about surviving for extended periods without power or infrastructure of any sort and I hoped that those books could help me out. Only time would tell.

After finishing my food and cleaning the dishes, I sat down to read and learn while I waited for my cast iron pans to finish baking.