The axe blade bit into the log with a satisfying thunk. Thomas Bird wiped sweat from his forehead despite the cool March air and examined the pile beside him. Not bad for a forty-one-year-old who'd never split firewood before almost two weeks ago. Not bad for a guy who could manage an investment team but couldn't hang a shelf straight. His left hand throbbed under its bandage. His lower back had given up complaining days ago and settled into a dull, permanent ache. Day after day of hauling water, sleeping on a camping mat, and pretending he knew what he was doing had turned his body into a collection of protests. But the pile of firewood was real. The campfire crackled and popped beside him, ready for lunch. Four camping chairs circled the stone fire pit he'd built himself.
He straightened and looked at their temporary home. A weathered log cabin at the edge of a clearing, smoke curling from the chimney, pine trees pressing in from all sides. The Izera Mountains in northern Bohemia stretched out beyond, silent and indifferent. The air smelled of resin and damp earth and something clean Thomas couldn't name, something you never got in the city, even commuting from their village to Prague every day. He flexed his bandaged hand and allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Ten days. He'd kept them fed, kept them warm, kept the whole thing running. Sure, the boys fought constantly and Michelle counted the hours until she could take a proper shower. But they were here. Together. Away from the lockdowns, the daily death counts on the news, the constant fear of infection. Away from their house in the village of Kly feeling smaller every day, the walls closing in as the world outside got sicker.
This was where they'd met, he and Michelle. Twenty years ago, hiking these same mountains, back when they were young and everything felt possible. Coming back here was supposed to fix things. Rekindle something. Ironic, really. Neither of them was outdoorsy. They'd both grown up with comfort and luxury, not campfires and sleeping bags. But Thomas had convinced himself that stripping away the distractions would help. Force them to reconnect. The first week had been rough, the boys doing online school while he and Michelle worked remotely, all of them crammed into this cabin with spotty internet signal. But the signal had grown worse as the days passed, cutting in and out unpredictably. Now spring break had started. No school, no work. Just family. So far, it had mostly forced them to be cold, tired, and irritable together.
"The fire is ready!" he called toward the cabin. "Stop wasting my data and come eat lunch!" Thomas didn't pay for unlimited data on purpose. It was partly about saving money, but mostly about discipline. Without endless gigabytes, he couldn't fall down the rabbit hole of scrolling videos and news feeds. It kept him focused. Goal-oriented. The boys, of course, saw it as torture.
Silence from the cabin. Then muffled arguing from inside. Thomas set the axe down and waited. The arguing got louder.
The cabin door burst open. Sam shot out first, twelve years old, brown hair wild and uncombed, still wearing yesterday's t-shirt. Built like the hockey player he was, all muscle and restless energy. Those big brown eyes were already scanning for trouble. Behind him, Johnny's lean, athletic frame filled the doorway, fist cocked back. Fifteen, blonde, with the physique of the elite soccer player he'd trained to become.
"Dad, what's up with the hotspot?" Sam called, his voice already edged with accusation, squaring up near the fire pit. Fists half-clenched. The kid was always ready for a scrap.
"You probably used up all my data again." Thomas forced brightness into his voice, trying to keep things light. "I told you I'm not paying for more, you fiends!"
"It was Johnny." Sam turned to his brother, pointing accusingly. "You and your stupid gaming videos. You used it all."
"I didn't use anything, you little shit." Johnny's lip curled, his voice dropping to that cold, cutting tone. "It was you watching your scout survival crap."
Sam shoved Johnny hard in the chest. Johnny stumbled back a step, caught off guard. "Don't call it crap!"
"Sam!" Thomas stepped forward, voice sharp. "Hands off!"
Johnny steadied himself, his face going cold, that switch flipping behind his eyes. "You're such a liar. You were watching the same videos. I saw you."
"Yeah, and?" Sam's chin jutted forward, defiant.
"So you're a hypocrite. Blaming me for something you did." Johnny's voice was cool, controlled, each word calculated to sting.
"So what? At least I learn something useful from my videos." Sam's voice rose defensively. "Unlike you, sitting there watching gamers play games all day long, too lazy to play yourself."
Johnny's eyes narrowed. "At least I have friends. And a girlfriend. What do you have? Rocks in your pockets? Sticks you pretend are weapons?" Each word landed like a slap.
"Shut the fuck up! Idiot!" Sam's voice cracked. His hands balled into fists.
"Sam!" Thomas shot him a sharp look, but Sam didn't even glance his way.
Johnny wasn't done. "Sara texts me every night... well, before we lost signal. When's the last time anyone texted you? Oh wait, you don't have anyone to text."
Sam launched himself at his brother with a wild swing. But Johnny was ready this time. He caught Sam's wrist, twisted, and drove his knee into Sam's thigh. A cheap shot, but effective. Sam crumpled sideways, hit the ground hard, and scrambled up. His face had gone red, veins standing out on his neck. His teeth were clenched so tight Thomas could see the muscles jumping in his jaw. Fists shaking at his sides. Eyes wet but refusing to let the tears fall.
"Stop it, boys!" Thomas lifted the axe slightly, going for authority. "I have an axe in my hand. An axe to the head would hurt. What's wrong with you?! Both of you?!"
Sam looked at him. That look. The one that said he saw right through his father. "You'll only hurt yourself, Dad." Always had to have the last word. And just like that the storm passed, the rage draining out of him as fast as it had come, his shoulders dropping into something almost calm.
"Sam, you started it. Apologize to your brother."
"What?!" Sam's voice cracked. The calm shattered. His whole body vibrated, fists opening and closing. "He said I have no friends! He said nobody texts me! He's the one who should apologize! Stupid liar!"
"You shoved him first." Thomas kept his voice level, reasonable.
"Because he called my stuff crap! And then he hit me!" Sam's voice was climbing higher with each word.
"You swung at him. He defended himself." Thomas tried to stay calm.
Sam's mouth fell open in disbelief. "Are you serious right now? He kneed me in the leg!"
Johnny crossed his arms, face unreadable, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He'd already checked out of the argument. That was his way. Strike hard, then retreat into silence, letting Sam spiral.
"Just calm down, Sam," Thomas said slowly.
"Me?!" Sam's voice rose to a near-shriek. "That's so unfair! You always take his side! Always! Every single time!"
"That's not—" He didn't finish the sentence.
"Yes it is! Johnny starts it, I get blamed. Johnny says horrible things, I get blamed. Johnny literally hits me, and you tell ME to calm down!"
"Sam, I'm trying to—"
"No! You know what? Forget it. Forget lunch. Forget this stupid trip. I'm leaving!"
Sam turned and ran. But not before Thomas caught the look on his face, tears spilling over, jaw clenched, something broken in his eyes. His chest tightened. Third time this week. He watched the boy disappear between the pines, something heavy settling in his gut. He knew where Sam was heading, the rocky outcrop with the view. The kid liked it there.
"Sam, come back!" he called after him. "It's time for your favorite lunch!"
Wind in the pines. Nothing else.
He turned to Johnny, but his older son was already walking toward the cabin, shoulders stiff, done with the whole thing.
"Johnny—"
"I'm getting lunch." The door closed behind him.
Thomas stood alone by the fire, feeling like he'd somehow lost to both of them.
Same fight. Different day. He stared at the cabin door. Johnny sulking inside. Sam running off to his cliff. And Thomas stuck in the middle, somehow always the bad guy. He rubbed his face with both hands.
The fire crackled. A bird called somewhere in the pines. He should go after Sam. He knew that. But his feet wouldn't move. Not yet.
Michelle's voice drifted from the cabin doorway. "Samee! Your favorite! Grandmother's paprika chicken!" She stepped out, scanning the clearing, the glass bowl balanced in her hands. Her blonde ponytail swayed as she turned, looking for her younger son. "Samee? Where are you hiding?"
She emerged fully, that natural grace she couldn't switch off even after nearly two weeks in the wilderness. But Thomas noticed things. The new outdoor clothes hanging looser than when they'd arrived. Three fake nails missing, the polish chipped on the rest. Lines around her eyes that deepened each morning.
She'd bought those outdoor clothes specially for this trip. Quality stuff, because Michelle didn't do cheap, even for camping she hated. She was trying. Harder than anyone gave her credit for. Thomas appreciated that more than he'd ever told her.
Thomas tried to catch her eye. "Chef is ready."
But she wasn't looking at him. Her eyes swept the clearing, searching. Her brow furrowed. "Where is he?"
"Left." Thomas kept his voice neutral. "Felt mistreated again."
"Again?" The word was flat, careful. Michelle set the bowl down slowly, deliberately. "Well, maybe he was really mistreated, again."
Heat prickled up Thomas's neck. "You have no idea what happened! You weren't even here! What's wrong with you, always assuming I'm the problem?"
Michelle didn't flinch. Didn't raise her voice. Just looked at him with those calm brown eyes that somehow made him feel like a child throwing a tantrum. "I'm not assuming anything. I'm asking where our son is."
"He ran off. Told you! Like he always does when he doesn't get his way."
"Mm." That single sound carried a decade of unspoken disagreements. She turned to Johnny, who had reappeared in the cabin doorway. "Johnny? Can you go find your brother, please?"
"No way!" Johnny leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "It's Dad's fault. He took my side and Sam lost it."
"You took his side?" Michelle's eyebrow rose a fraction.
"I was trying to be fair—"
"Johnny, honey, go grab the plates and utensils." Michelle's voice softened for their son, dismissing him gently. Then she turned back to Thomas, calm and measured, that same patient expression he knew too well. The one she saved for moments when she'd already decided not to fight, just to win. "Thomas, can you go and bring him back for lunch, please?"
Not a question. His jaw tightened. Of course. The boys fight, I try to handle it, and somehow I'm the one sent to fix it. Every single time. He wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that Sam had thrown the first punch, that Johnny had been cruel, that none of this was simple. But Michelle was already turning away, already moving toward the cabin, already done with the conversation.
"Sure." The word came out flatter than he intended, barely hiding his frustration. He gave Johnny a look that bounced right off the boy's indifference and got only a shrug, hands and shoulders raised, as if to say, what could I do? Thomas headed into the trees.
This is how it always goes, he thought as branches brushed his shoulders. I try to handle something, she decides I handled it wrong, and suddenly I'm the one apologizing. When was the last time she admitted she might be wrong about anything?
But even as the thought formed, he knew it wasn't fair. She wasn't here. She didn't see what happened. And maybe, just maybe, she had a point about how often he took Johnny's side.
The forest swallowed him. Pine needles crunched underfoot, and the canopy filtered the light into pale coins on the ground. Thomas's boots felt heavy, caked with mud from yesterday's rain. His back protested each step.
He found Sam exactly where he expected. The rocky outcrop jutted from the hillside like a natural balcony, surrounded by twisted pines. The boy sat right at the edge, legs dangling over the drop, completely at ease with nothing but air beneath his feet. His shoulders had slumped, the fight gone out of him. He looked smaller somehow.
Thomas stopped ten feet back. His stomach clenched the moment he saw his son perched on the very lip of the rock, legs hanging over nothing, the ground dropping away just past him. Every muscle in Thomas locked. He wanted to lunge, grab a fistful of jacket, haul the boy back onto solid stone. Forest rolled into forest below, a small village nestled in the valley, and beyond that the hazy line where earth met sky. The kind of view that should make a person feel small and alive. Thomas mostly felt his pulse hammering in his throat.
Just a cliff. Just a drop. Sam sits there all the time.
But his legs wouldn't move. The familiar tightness spread across his chest, that irrational certainty that the rock would crumble, that gravity would reach up and pull him over. He'd been this way since childhood. Roller coasters, glass elevators, even the observation deck at the Prague TV tower made his palms slick and his vision swim.
"I knew I'd find you here." He kept his voice gentle, no accusation in it.
Sam didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him at all.
Thomas forced himself forward, one step, then another. His heart pounded harder with each foot closer to the edge. He lowered himself onto the rock a little behind his son, close enough to talk but back from where the stone dropped away into nothing. His fingers found a crack in the rock and gripped it, an anchor against the vertigo threatening to rise.
For a while, neither spoke. The wind moved through the pines. A bird called somewhere below them. Thomas kept his eyes on Sam's profile, not the valley.
"You okay?" Thomas asked finally.
Sam shrugged. Still not looking at him.
"Sam, I'm sorry if I was unfair back there. I was trying to stop the fight, not take sides."
"You always take his side." Sam's voice was thick. "Every time."
"That's not—" Thomas stopped himself. Took a breath. "Maybe it feels that way. I'm sorry."
Sam finally looked at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks still damp. "He said nobody wants to text me. He said I don't have friends."
"He was being cruel. That wasn't okay." Thomas's voice was gentle, apologetic.
"Then why didn't you say that to him?" Sam's voice was accusatory.
Thomas didn't have a good answer. I'm so focused on stopping the fists that I let the words slide. Words cut deeper than fists. "You're right. I should have. I'll talk to him."
Sam turned back to the valley, his voice flat. "It doesn't matter."
"It does matter. Your feelings matter." Thomas shifted closer, shoulder almost touching his son's, his voice earnest. "And for what it's worth, you have plenty of friends. Real ones. The kids from scouts, your hockey team—"
"It's not the same as having a girlfriend." Sam's voice went small. He picked at a loose thread on his jacket.
"You're twelve, Sam. You don't need a girlfriend." Thomas tried to sound reassuring.
"Easy for you to say." But some of the tension left Sam's shoulders.
They sat in silence for another moment. Then Sam pointed toward the valley. "Dad, remember that smoke I mentioned this morning?"
Thomas followed his son's finger. Several columns of smoke rising from the village and the surrounding area. One of them was thick, black, the kind that came from something bigger than a brush pile. He shrugged. "Farmers. Always burning something."
"It's bigger now." Sam kept his eyes fixed on the valley, his voice dropping. "And still no fire trucks. Do you think something's wrong?"
"Villagers burning stuff, probably." Thomas settled into a more comfortable position, keeping his voice dismissive. "Trash, leaves, maybe clearing fields. It's normal out here."
"But that big one..." Sam squinted, leaning forward. "That looks like a building. And I don't hear any sirens. Shouldn't there be fire trucks?"
Thomas listened. Sam is right. No sirens. No distant wail of emergency vehicles. Just wind and birds.
"Maybe they already put it out." He kept his voice casual. "Or it's controlled burning. Farmers do that."
Sam didn't look convinced. He chewed his lower lip the way he did when something bothered him. "It's pretty big, Dad." His voice was uncertain.
"It's fine. I promise." Thomas stood and brushed off his jeans. "Come on. Let's get back for lunch. Grandmother's chicken is waiting. I don't understand how you can be so calm right over that drop."
A ghost of a smile crossed Sam's face. He straightened slightly. "The paprika one?"
"Yep. And you know how Mom gets when food goes cold." Thomas grinned.
Sam stood, glancing back at the smoke one more time. "Dad? Do you think we can call the village? Just to make sure everything's okay?" He chewed his lip.
Thomas pulled out his phone and checked. No signal. Not even one bar. "No service up here. We're too deep in the mountains." He pocketed it again, keeping his voice light. "But I'm sure it's fine. We'd hear something if it wasn't."
Sam nodded slowly, not entirely convinced, but willing to let it go. He followed his father into the trees.
The clearing felt different when they returned. Smaller somehow, the light gone flat and gray as clouds thickened from the west. Michelle and Johnny sat around the campfire, heads bent together, talking in low voices. The moment Thomas and Sam emerged from the treeline, they went silent. Both turned to look, faces unreadable. Michelle's eyes flicked between Thomas and Sam, assessing. Johnny's expression was carefully blank, but his eyes slid away when Thomas looked at him.
An awkward pause stretched between them. Sam shifted his weight, suddenly self-conscious.
"Finally!" Michelle broke the silence, her voice a touch too bright. She patted the camping chair beside her. "Come sit, Samee. Food's getting cold."
"Yes." Thomas bared his teeth and curled his fingers into claws, doing his wolf impression, the silly act that used to make both boys laugh when they were little. "I'm hungry as a wolf!"
Sam gave him a flat stare. "Dad, I'm not five anymore. What's wrong with you?"
"Cool it, you two." Michelle's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "I thought you'd talked it out already."
"Let's have lunch!" Thomas grabbed the serving spoon.
Michelle handed him the bowl. "Do you want some help?"
"It's fine, just sit and look pretty."
Wrong words. He knew it immediately. Michelle's frown confirmed it.
"You know what?" Thomas scrambled. "Do me a favor and keep the Birds from fighting, would you?"
Michelle watched the boys settle into their chairs. "Well, I guess when you're on your phones, at least you aren't trying to take each other's heads off, right? Sad but true." She made air quotes with her fingers and paused, glancing at her broken nail with a small grimace. "It's our final night here in the cabin, relatively comfy. Spring break is almost over. Are you guys looking forward to sleeping only in a tent in the wild for a few more nights?"
Sam's face lit up. Johnny's went carefully blank.
Thomas watched Michelle as she asked the question. She was smiling, but it didn't reach her eyes. She was trying so hard to be enthusiastic about this, to be a good sport. But he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she kept touching her ruined nails, the slight pinch around her mouth when she said "tent." She was dreading it. Dreading every uncomfortable minute of it. And she was doing it anyway, for them. For the family. Something loosened in Thomas's chest. He wanted to reach over and squeeze her hand.
"Sure," Sam said, eyeing Thomas's campfire with obvious judgment. "But I'll be making the campfire from now on."
Heat rushed to Thomas's face. His campfire worked. It heated their food. It kept them warm. "What, my fire's not good enough for you?"
"No!" Sam grinned, enjoying himself. "We learned it better at scouts. I told you, but you don't listen!"
Michelle shook her head, clearly not on Thomas's side.
"Johnny, you also think my campfire sucks?"
His older son didn't look up. "I don't care. I'm hungry."
Thomas dished out the food harder than necessary. His bandaged hand screamed. The food smelled incredible, the one thing that was definitely working today.
"What a nice meal I've cooked!"
"You mean reheated," Michelle said.
She turned to the boys. "What's your plan for the afternoon before we start packing and head deeper into the woods?"
Johnny's jaw tightened at the mention of going deeper. Michelle noticed. She always notices when it comes to the boys.
They ate in silence. Fire crackled. Spoons scraped bowls. The forest held still around them.
"Wanna play some soccer?" Thomas asked Johnny.
The shift was instant. Johnny's whole body straightened. "S-sure!" He got so excited he hiccupped, and for a second, just a second, he looked like the little kid who used to wait by the door when Thomas came home from work.
Thomas turned to Sam. "How about you?"
"I'd rather pack things properly. In case of rain."
"Sam, those clouds aren't rainy. There will be no rain today."
"Just in case." Sam met his eyes, stubborn. "And you mentioned that the weather changes very quickly in the mountains, right?"
Thomas waved his hand. "Up to you."
Michelle looked at the boys with something soft in her expression. "Boys, I think you'll be excited about this whole adventure once we're back home."
Thomas glanced past the cabin, toward the valley. That column of dark smoke still rose into the afternoon sky. Thicker now. The wind had shifted, and he thought he caught something on the air. Faint. Acrid. Just villagers burning something. He took another bite, reheated over his apparently inadequate fire, and told himself everything was fine.