Chapter 7, The Girl with Gold in Her Hands

The trees ended suddenly.

Bruce pushed past a curtain of young pines and stepped into a strip of sunshine—and stopped.

Before her, the land dipped into a wide, muddy ditch, maybe ten feet across and twice as deep. It had steep, carved edges from the spring runoff and muddy banks lined with half-melted snow and brown reeds. A shallow stream trickled through the bottom, sluggish and cold.

And beyond that?

Town.

She could see it clearly now. Rows of houses. Cars lined along the roadside. Thin telephone poles stretching like skeleton fingers. A red-brick building with white trim that looked vaguely like a school. A faded billboard with a bottle of something orange on it. Movement. Life.

Bruce narrowed her eyes.

"This is it," she whispered. "Civilization."

She adjusted the sling on her shoulder. The weight of the gold nugget was dragging on her spine, but she wasn't about to leave it behind. She scanned the ditch for a way across.

No bridge.

Just trees. Mud. More mud.

She crouched at the edge, eyeing the opposite bank like a soldier studying enemy terrain.

"Might be shallow," she muttered. "Maybe. Probably." She dropped a stick into the center. It sank instantly and vanished into dark water.

She frowned.

Then tried to climb down anyway.

It didn't go well.

The side was too steep. Her foot slipped. Her arms pinwheeled. She skidded down the embankment on her back and landed hard in a patch of cold sludge, barely catching herself with one hand.

She sat there, soaked, panting.

"…I hate man-made terrain."

She climbed back up, more stubborn than embarrassed, and started walking along the edge of the ditch, squinting for a crossing.

And finally—after twenty minutes of muttering, tripping, and nearly rolling her ankle—she spotted it.

A narrow concrete bridge, maybe thirty feet ahead, barely wide enough for one car. A sign beside it read CAUTION: ONE LANE BRIDGE in faded letters.

She paused at the top of the ridge, sighed, and whispered:

"Should've looked first."

Crossing it felt strange.

The ground didn't shift under her feet. No leaves. No roots. Just a straight, gray path—smooth and cold.

It felt fake.

Untrustworthy.

But it led forward.

And so she followed it.

The road curved downward and straightened again, carrying her into town like a conveyor belt she couldn't get off. Ahead, everything looked clean. Lined up. Trimmed. Tamed.

Houses with paint.

Lawns with borders.

The air didn't smell like trees or wet stone.

It smelled like… soap.

Bruce's stomach twisted.

She wasn't scared.

Just... disoriented.

This wasn't her world.

Not anymore.

Still, she whispered to herself:"Okay. You made it. Don't mess it up."

She tightened the knot on her sling.

Adjusted her gloves.

And took her first steps into Stowe.

The first thing Bruce noticed was how flat everything was.

No roots. No ridges. No rocks jutting up from the dirt. Just a long, gray ribbon of pavement that split the town like a scar. Houses lined the sides like trimmed bushes—neat, painted, almost smug. Their windows reflected the morning sun in perfect rectangles.

Bruce narrowed her eyes.

"Feels like a trap," she muttered.

She stepped onto the sidewalk with caution.

It was warm under her shoes—warmer than dirt. Harder than stone. The sound of her footsteps echoed differently here, thinner somehow, like the ground didn't want to speak back.

She turned a corner and nearly walked into a mailbox. She blinked. Tilted her head.

"…Metal mushroom with a flag?" She tapped it. It rattled. She grunted.

Farther down the street, a bicycle zipped past, the tires hissing on the concrete.

Bruce flinched.

"What the hell was that?"

She walked past a shop window and stopped dead.

Inside: televisions.

Boxy things with dials and knobs and glowing screens. One of them was playing a rerun of Gilligan's Island. Laughing people moved inside it.

Bruce stared.

"Why are they trapped in there?"

She pressed her face to the glass.

A man walking past glanced at her, did a double take, then kept going quickly.

Next was a vending machine.

It sat humbly outside the gas station, humming faintly. It was bright red, covered in buttons. Bruce approached it slowly, circling it once, then twice.

She pressed a button.

Nothing happened.

She pressed it harder.

Still nothing.

"…Maybe it's broken," she whispered, stepping back. "Or maybe it's a decoy."

Further into town, she walked past a barber shop where a man in a striped smock was shaving another man's face with a straight razor.

Bruce stared.

"Why is he holding a knife to that guy's throat and no one's stopping him?"

A woman in heels glanced at her. Then again.

Bruce caught the look—polite confusion.

Her clothes were clean, yes. But the way she moved? The way her braid swayed like a rope, the gloves on her hands, the weight of something wrapped in hide across her shoulder—nothing about her said "normal."

But no one stopped her.

They just… watched.

She passed a gumball machine.

A spinning paper fan in a window.

A black-and-white Missing Cat flyer taped to a phone pole.

She stared up at the tangle of power lines overhead.

"All that just to make lights?" she muttered.

Then she saw it.

Across the street: a man sitting alone on a bench, drinking a soda, biting into a sandwich with the slow, deliberate movements of someone who didn't care how long it took.

Gray hair. Broad shoulders. Military posture slumped into civilian boredom.

Ivan.

Bruce's eyes widened.

Her stomach growled.

She crossed the street without hesitation.

Ivan sat like a statue that had grown tired of being carved.

Back straight, elbows resting on knees, soda can in one hand, sandwich in the other. He chewed with the slow precision of a man who saw food as fuel, not pleasure. His faded green work jacket was zipped halfway despite the warming day, and his heavy boots were planted firmly on the sidewalk like they belonged there more than he did.

He didn't blink when Bruce approached.

Didn't even look up.

But he noticed her. Of course he did.

He always noticed the quiet ones.

Bruce slowed as she neared the bench.

Her stomach twisted again. She could smell the sandwich—meat, cheese, something tangy—and her body leaned forward before her mind had caught up.

Ivan took another bite.

Bruce stepped closer.

"Excuse me," she said, voice high but steady.

He didn't answer.

She tried again.

"Excuse me."

Ivan glanced up.

His eyes were pale gray and half-lidded. His expression was neutral—not annoyed, not kind. Just… waiting.

Bruce pointed at his soda can.

"Where did you get that?"

Ivan stared.

Then, slowly, he lifted the can and gestured with it across the street.

"Store."

Bruce followed the direction of his hand. A small wooden building with peeling paint and dusty windows. A red sign hung crooked above the door. It didn't look like much.

But if it sold food?

It might as well have been a palace.

"Thank you!" she said quickly, already turning to leave.

Ivan grunted.

Then, as she ran off, he took another bite and said under his breath, "Strangest-looking Redfield I've ever seen."

The bell above the door gave a weak jingle as Bruce stepped into the store.

It was dim and cooler than she expected, smelling of floor wax, motor oil, and something sweet—maybe sugar or the gum on the counter. The lights buzzed faintly above. A fan clicked somewhere in the back.

She took two cautious steps forward.

And froze.

Rows of bright packages stretched before her—shiny, colorful, too perfect. Shelves of cans, bags, boxes, things wrapped in plastic and paper with bold letters she couldn't read fast enough. Bottles of strange-colored liquids. Snack cakes in plastic that looked like they could survive a war.

She muttered, "Is this a supply depot or a wizard's bunker?"

Behind the counter sat a teenager. Maybe sixteen. Faded jeans, an oversized gray hoodie with the sleeves pushed up. Her chin was propped on her hand, eyes glassy with boredom as she tapped a pencil against the side of the register.

This was Lillian Westfield, middle child of the refined Westfield family—exiled from her family's estate for the day after refusing to attend piano lessons and "accidentally" cutting her fencing tutor's coat.

This shift was her punishment.

She didn't expect anything interesting to happen.

Until Bruce walked in.

Lillian barely looked up. "Morning. You lost, or just weird?"

Bruce ignored the tone.

She walked slowly to the counter, her braid dripping water from her earlier swim, her gloved hands adjusting the bark-wrapped sling over her shoulder. She stood on her tiptoes and just managed to reach the counter.

Then she untied the vine cord.

And pulled out the gold.

A solid, fist-sized nugget of raw gold.

She placed it on the counter with both hands, like offering an apple.

"Can I buy anything with this?"

Lillian blinked.

Then slowly sat up straight.

She stared at the nugget.

Then at Bruce.

Then back at the nugget.

She reached out. Touched it.

It was warm. Dense. Real.

Her eyes widened slightly—but her voice didn't change.

"…Yes," she said, trying to sound bored. "That'll do."

Bruce nodded like that made perfect sense and turned to browse.

Lillian didn't move.

She just stared at the nugget.

She'd never held real gold before—not like this.

It was heavy.

Rough around the edges.

And definitely not costume jewelry.

She picked it up and tested its weight in her hand.

Then whispered, "Holy crap…"

Meanwhile, Bruce wandered the aisles.

She picked a sandwich in plastic, a bottle of orange soda, a bag of chips, and a chocolate bar with a cartoon bear on the label.

She considered grabbing a can of ravioli.

Then decided she didn't know how to open it.

Back at the counter, Lillian was inspecting the nugget under the register light.

Bruce returned and set the items down gently.

Lillian looked up.

"Where'd you find this?"

Bruce shrugged. "Secret cave."

Lillian blinked. "You're serious."

Bruce smiled slightly. "I might come back and buy more things later. If that's okay."

Lillian nodded slowly. "Oh yeah. Totally. Come back anytime."

Bruce took her bag and walked out the door, braid swinging behind her.

Lillian stood in silence.

Then grabbed the gold, stuffed it into her hoodie pocket, and whispered, "I'm buying a Camaro."

Ivan was still there.

Same bench. Same position. Same expression.

The sandwich was gone now, and the soda can sat crushed beside his boot, slowly rocking in the breeze like a soldier waiting for orders. He didn't look up when Bruce approached. He didn't need to. He'd heard her coming a block away—her small boots pattering against the pavement, the rustle of a paper bag.

Bruce hesitated a few feet away.

She was holding her own sandwich now. And a bottle of orange soda. She didn't know what the flavor was supposed to be—it looked radioactive—but the cold bottle had felt amazing in her hand.

She cleared her throat.

"…You were right."

Ivan grunted.

"The food. It's good," she added.

Still no reply.

Bruce took a step closer. "Can I sit here?"

Ivan finally looked up. His eyes scanned her quickly—head to toe, like he was checking for weapons. Or weakness.

She met his gaze evenly.

After a long pause, he gave a grunt that could mean anything—but he slid his boot half an inch to the side.

Bruce took that as a yes.

She sat down.

For a moment, they just sat in silence.

Bruce unwrapped her sandwich with slow fingers, her gloves making the task clumsy. She stared at the meat. Took a bite.

Her eyes widened.

Soft bread. Real cheese. Savory warmth.

She chewed slowly, reverently.

Ivan popped a sunflower seed into his mouth and cracked it with his teeth. The motion was smooth, practiced. He didn't look at her. Just stared across the street like it was a battlefield.

After a minute, Bruce spoke again.

"You're Russian."

Ivan didn't answer.

"I can hear it," she said. "Your voice. The way you said 'store.' It clipped."

Ivan let a moment pass.

Then said, "You're observant."

Bruce nodded. "You're quiet."

Ivan snorted. "So are you."

They ate in silence.

A car drove past. A dog barked in the distance. Someone laughed inside the diner across the road.

Bruce finished her sandwich and wiped her hands on her shorts.

Then, with a shy motion, she reached into her bag and pulled out a wrapped cookie she'd grabbed on impulse. She tore it in half.

And offered one piece to Ivan.

He glanced at it.

Then took it.

No thanks. No smile.

Just a nod.

After a long pause, Ivan stood.

Bruce blinked. "Where are you going?"

"Library."

She sat up straighter. "What's that?"

Ivan gave her a slow look, like she'd just asked what a tree was.

"Books," he said. "Big ones. Old ones. Quiet place."

Bruce's eyes widened.

"Can I come?"

Ivan shrugged. "Free country."

They started walking together.

Bruce stayed one step behind, still licking cookie crumbs from her fingers.

She clutched the rest of her soda like it was treasure.

As they turned the corner, she whispered to herself:

"First food. Then books. I'm on a roll."

The library was an old brick building tucked between the post office and the church.

It didn't look like much—just a faded wooden sign that read Stowe Free Library, a couple of steps, and a door that creaked like a tired tree. But when Ivan pushed it open, the smell hit Bruce first.

Dust. Ink. Paper. History.

The air was warm and dry. Calm.

It didn't hum like the store or the diner. It breathed.

Bruce stopped just inside the doorway.

Her eyes were wide.

Shelves. Endless rows of them. Tall wooden stacks filled with books—hundreds, maybe thousands. Colors she didn't recognize. Words she couldn't read fast enough. Narrow aisles and hanging lamps and one old ceiling fan spinning in slow circles above.

She whispered, "It's a cave made of stories."

Ivan, already halfway to the periodicals, grunted over his shoulder. "Just books."

Bruce didn't hear him. She was already walking.

The librarian, a woman in her sixties with silver hair coiled like a snail shell, looked up over her glasses. She opened her mouth to say something—but paused when she saw Bruce.

A strange child.

Wearing real gloves, real shoes.

But still moving like she expected to be hunted.

The librarian blinked. Said nothing.

Bruce nodded at her, serious and polite.

Then turned down an aisle.

She wandered.

Her fingers brushed against spines.

Tales of the Northwoods. Vermont Wild. Healing Plants of New England.

Her heart beat faster.

She didn't know what she was looking for.

But she knew it was here.

She found a section marked Children's Non-Fiction.

Knelt beside a lower shelf.

Pulled out a book called How Things Work.

She flipped it open and stared at a diagram of a pulley system.

Then a toaster.

Then an old television.

Her eyebrows rose.

"So that's what's inside them…"

She found another book: Metals and Minerals for Beginners.

She gasped.

"This is perfect."

She sat cross-legged right there on the floor, hands smudged from the pages, reading as fast as her eyes could track.

Somewhere in the background, Ivan settled into his usual corner.

Crossword.

Coffee from his thermos.

Half an eye on the girl reading like the world might disappear if she didn't learn fast enough.

An hour passed.

Bruce didn't notice.

She had a stack now—three, maybe four books open around her. Notes scratched into a napkin from the store. Sketches of ore veins. A drawing of a fire pit with arrows pointing to where she wanted to place the air tube.

She whispered: "Furnace Mark II is going to fly."

Eventually, the librarian stepped over.

"You know you can check those out," she said gently.

Bruce looked up, blinking. "Check them out of what?"

The woman smiled softly. "Take them home. You need a library card."

Bruce hesitated. "I don't have a home address."

The librarian paused.

Then glanced toward Ivan.

He gave the tiniest shrug.

She turned back. "Then you can read them here. As long as you like."

Bruce nodded. "I'll come back tomorrow."

She stood slowly.

Held one book close—Beginner's Guide to Metalsmithing.

And whispered, "This is better than a forge."

---

The library door creaked shut behind them.

Bruce stepped out into the fading afternoon light, arms folded around the book she hadn't been allowed to take, clutching it like it might vanish if she let go.

It was heavier than it looked.

But it felt… right.

She walked with small, deliberate steps beside Ivan, who moved at his usual pace—measured, steady, boots scraping softly against the pavement. He didn't say anything.

Neither did she.

The sky was shifting into the soft gold of early evening. The streets were quieter now. A few kids rode past on banana-seat bikes. A dog barked behind a fence. Somewhere down the road, a car engine coughed to life and rolled away.

Bruce watched everything.

Listened to everything.

But said nothing.

Until:

"…Thank you."

Ivan grunted. "For what?"

"For showing me the store. And the bench. And the library."

Another grunt. Slightly softer this time.

Bruce walked a few more steps, hugging the book tighter.

Then asked, voice small:

"Can I come back tomorrow?"

Ivan didn't answer at first.

Then, after a few more steps, he shrugged.

"Free country."

Bruce smiled. Just barely.

But it reached her eyes.

They passed the bench again—the one where she'd first spoken to him. She slowed as they passed it, then looked up at him.

"…Do you sit there every day?"

"Not every day," Ivan said.

"Most days?"

"Enough."

Bruce nodded. "Okay."

They reached the edge of town where the trees started creeping back toward the road. Bruce stopped, shifting the gold nugget sling on her back and adjusting the book in her arms.

"I have to go back now," she said. "I have people waiting."

Ivan glanced at her.

"You mean animals."

Bruce blinked. "Yeah."

She smiled again. "But they're good company."

Ivan didn't smile. But something behind his eyes shifted.

"I'll see you," Bruce said.

She turned.

Started walking back toward the woods.

Stopped after a few steps.

Then turned back and called over her shoulder:

"I'll bring you something next time. Something from the mountain."

Ivan watched her go.

Didn't call after her.

But he stood there a little longer than he needed to.

And when he finally turned back toward town, he said quietly to no one:

"…Strange girl."

Then paused.

Corrected himself.

"…Strange kid."