Tucker:

“There’s a side door to the attached garage,” Stone says. “I’ve tried it a few times and it’s usually unlocked. They won’t even know you’re in there.”

“Unless you don’t want to sneak up on them,” Moss says. “It’s not like they’ll be able to do anything. You could ring the doorbell and just shoot ’em in the head when they answer the door. I’ve always wanted to do something like that.”

“I think I’ll go for the sneak attack,” I say. I’m not going to kill these people; I just have to figure out how I’m going to pull this off without getting us all shot. “You know how I like to hunt. Might as well not stray too far from my norm.”

“Good thinking,” Moss says. “It’s exactly like hunting. Only this time the stakes are a lot higher.”

“I’ll be right back,” I tell them, hoping that the next five minutes brings me some sort of revelation about what I need to do to spare these people’s lives. I trudge down over the hill, sneaking across the lawn and to the side door that Stone told me about.

As I pull open the door, I notice a box with an alarm system. I hit the panic button. I’ve seen these before. They don’t make any noise, but I’m hoping that it does its job and the police are on their way. I lock the door behind me. I sneak across the garage and notice the breaker box. I find the kill switch and turn off the power to the house. I stand there in complete darkness for a moment, listening for signs of life in the adjoining rooms.

In a matter of moments, I’m face-to-face with an old man shining a flashlight through the garage.

“What in the hell?” he stammers.

“The police are on the way,” I tell him. “I hit the alarm. How long do you think it’ll take them to get here?”

“No idea,” the man says. “I’ve never had to push the button before.”

“There is a gang of men in the woods who are planning on ambushing your house and murdering you and your wife,” I try to say as calmly as possible.

“And what are you doing here?” he stammers.

“I’m trying to save you,” I say. “My name is Jesse Drakeman. I’m an architect from North Carolina. Don’t ask me why that’s relevant, but I feel like I need to get that out. I’m gonna slide you my gun. Is there somewhere safe we can go and wait until the police get here? I’m sure they’re moving in on us by now.”

“We can go in the basement,” he says. “Let me get Farrah.”

“What’s going on, honey?” a woman’s voice softly speaks from the darkness. “Can’t you find the generator?”

“We need to go in the basement,” he says calmly. I watch him pick up the pistol from the floor.

“Who’s here?” she asks.

“Some architect. Come on, let’s go.”

“You’re the boy from the TV,” the woman says, looking right at me as her husband shines the flashlight in my face. “You’re the mountain boy.”

“Alright, dear,” the man says to her. “We can talk in a little bit. Let’s go downstairs.”

“Can I take a selfie with you?” she asks me.

He ushers us down the basement steps, locking the steel door behind him.

“Why are we going down here?” she asks him.

“There’s a storm coming, Farrah. We just need to go for a little bit while we wait for it to pass. Give this man your cellphone,” he says to her. “He can call the police and let them know we’re safe and we’re in the basement.”

I like this man. The fact that he’s keeping himself so calm in such a fucked-up situation to protect his wife is what true love looks like to me. Sure he’ll have some explaining to do later, but at least she doesn’t have to know that right now they are in serious danger.

It makes me miss Molly.

It makes me think about everything I was hiding from her and why. It wasn’t to protect her, it was to protect myself. It was my own childish need to run away from a life that I was unhappy with and I was using her in the process. No wonder she was so upset. I can’t blame her for the article. And I do owe her an explanation at the very least.

I do owe her a chance to get to know the real me, as my real life, my true life begins flashing before my eyes. Jesse Drakeman, architect, CEO, billionaire. Man who went on a hunting trip and never came back to his responsibilities.

I better call Max, too. He’s probably pissed. I told him I needed a few weeks to go off-grid and get my shit together, but judging by the length of my beard, it’s been long enough to send out some major warning flags.

I hear footsteps on the floor above of. Loud, violent sounding footsteps and the men are yelling for me.

“Tucker! Where you at, man?”

I press my finger to my lips as the couple huddles in the corner of the basement.

“Hello, 911?” I say into the phone. “I need to report a crime in progress.”