Ferns and blackberry brambles curled onto the canvas as Toby laid out the painting, lightly marking out moss, fallen redwoods, roots. Itâd been hovering around in his head since that morning, this scene - the forest along the Chetco River, in spring, the way heâd first seen it.Â
He had woken up early, thinking to unpack a few more boxes before heading in to the labs. The second one he opened was full of Frankâs shots, and the frames on top had left that first hunting trip on his mind: kalmiopsis bushes bursting out of burnt pines, a belted kingfisher on a mossy branch. Sadie and Milo at the riverâs edge, the setter refusing to go deeper than his ankles while the coonhound splashed away.Â
Heâd sketched through his lunch break, and set up a canvas as soon as he got home. There were more than a few stacked next to his drafting table, all prepped over the last few months, built and canvassed and ghessoed - only because Frank had kept encouraging him. Go on, donât need you hovering. Go on. Heâd laughed, kindly. Told Toby to do something other than worry for a while, with that worn, exhausted smile on his face. Wearing thinner with every day, as the cancer carved into him. Toby had tried, because Frank had told him to, he had. But heâd never got more than a few sweeps of paint down. The diagnosis had left a cold, heavy ache in his stomach, and itâd come creeping up as he started working. Clawing into his throat, choking him. Sometimes heâd make an excuse, going to do something for the dogs, or cut kindling, or clean. Most often, though, Toby had just shaken off his skin and padded over to sit by his father. Trying to ignore the harsh, clinging scent of sickness. Frank had just scratched behind the wolfâs ears, smiling, and gone on joking, talking. Dying.Â
Toby sat back, reaching for the glass of gin heâd poured himself. He took a slow sip, breathing in the brightness of citrus and juniper, eyeing the canvas. The pencil work wasnât anything exacting. Wasnât supposed to be. At work, his drawings were crisply realistic; on his own time, he drifted towards looser styles. Heâd toy with this sketch a little more. The actual painting part heâd leave for his next day off, when he had natural light to work in - Toby had set up his drafting desk under the wide living room window, the perfect spot. Sadie started to spring away from his pencil when he went back to sketching. Only started. Toby twitched at a sudden burst of howls and barks from outside, the dogs, bawling like they had something treed. Darting around a few packing boxes, he snatched a jacket off the back of one of the kitchen chairs, yanked on his boots, took a flashlight from the counter and headed down the steps. Pawprints crisscrossed the thin, powdery snow, but the dogs themselves were all busy down at the fence, jumping up, barking madly.
âWhatâre you guys after, huh?â Toby wove through to get to the latch, gently brushing them back, quieting the pack with a loud titch.
There it was - the scent that set them off. Some kind of cologne. Smelled expensive. And something else, faint, but... metallic. Old. Rusty? Not quite. Just a sliver of it, anyway. Toby swung the gate open, shining the flashlight through the treeline. He lowered the beam, politely, as he caught movement between the pinyon pines: just somebody out for a stroll. They didnât seem to have a light of their own. Mustâve been relying on the stars and that sliver of moon. That was a little crazy, especially with snow on the ground. So an inexperienced or slightly reckless hiker, who'd probably just had the shit scared out of them.
âSorry about the noise,â Toby started, the apology genuine. âThey just got excited.â
Caro nosed at his fingers, then, letting out a low whimper. He gave her downy head a reassuring scratch. A slight smile lingered on his face as he looked back up, into the forest.
âYou alright, out there?âÂ
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