The Uncut Wood: A Bear Camp Short by Slade James

Author:Slade James [James, Slade]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

4

The small dark shack was almost hidden under the snow-laden branches of cedar trees and snowdrifts. If we hadn’t known where we were going, we would’ve walked right past it.

Once we were inside, I dug an LED lantern out of my pack and hung it on a peg on the wall. The single room was so cold we could see our breaths in the gloomy, artificial light. There was a twin-sized bed in one corner, a basic water closet with a toilet in another, a rough wooden coffee table, and a stone fireplace. God, this was definitely rustic. The good news was we’d have to snuggle just to keep from dying of hypothermia.

I made up the bed with the stack of clean—if not exactly fresh—linens, while Gunner built us a fire. He was quiet, intently making small adjustments with an iron poker to the position of the logs.

When he saw me holding my hands out toward the blaze to warm them, he rose, grabbed his backpack, and removed our pillows. “Come here,” he said, grabbing me by the wrist.

My heart started to pound. For a second, I thought he was taking me straight to the bed.

He tossed the pillows on top of the blanket, then grabbed the lantern as he led me into the water closet.

There was barely enough room for both of us. Gunner lowered the toilet seat lid and softly ordered me to sit. While I held the light for him, he knelt at my feet and rifled through his pack. He took out a shaving kit and a few makeup bags.

Gunner kneeling in front of me made me nervous. “You about to give me a makeover?”

He ignored my dumb joke. “Give me your hand.”

“Oh, a manicure, then?”

“Dude.” He sighed and glared at me. “Your internalized homophobia is showing.”

I spluttered. “Well, what’s the big, black nail file thingy for?”

“It’s called a salon board, Butch. I use it to sand down my calluses. If you keep them smooth, there’s less chance of them ripping off like yours did. Did you at least clean the wound other than just showering?”

“Yeah. I poured rubbing alcohol over it.”

“Gee. Why didn’t you just use gasoline?”

“It felt like I did. You didn’t hear me screaming?”

“Hank, alcohol dries the fuck out of your skin. Skin needs to be moisturized. You’re such a boy.”

Gunner took my wounded hand in both of his, uncurled my fingers, and gently peeled away the flesh-colored bandage I’d slapped on my palm.

He winced at the sight of the raw, red flesh. “That’s gotta hurt.”

I shook my head and grunted something noncommittal. I couldn’t manage any words. I was too distracted by the awareness of his hands touching mine. We’d clasped hands, shook hands, exchanged high fives, and he’d held my hand on the hike, but we’d never studied one another’s hands like this. I secretly admired his hands all the time: the size of them; the coarse ginger hair on the back of his knuckles; the thick, rounded fingertips and perfectly groomed nails.

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