The Sky We Seek (Love and Other Dreams #2)

Chapter 10

Noah

Yawning, I step out onto the porch. I breathe in the cool forest air and listen to the birds chirping as I sip my coffee and look around. My gaze wanders across the forest floor, littered with dried pine needles. Individual patches of moss grow up the gnarled tree trunks surrounding my house.

Thank goodness no one is in sight. My neighbors are several miles away, and no hiking trails pass by here. Occasionally, mushroom pickers may get lost in this area, but that’s about it. There are no probing eyes, no faked pleasantries, and no sensational gossip.

I am safe here.

For a moment, I close my eyes and savor the silence that envelops me. The feeling of home glows warmly in my chest, and a sigh escapes my lips.

As liberating as it is, I still need to get started. With great effort, I lift my heavy eyes and descend the porch steps. Halfway across the front yard, I stop. The blinding sun sends a sharp pain straight into the back of my eyes.

Dammit. Not again.

With my gaze lowered, I drag myself across the soft ground to the workshop I’ve set up in an outbuilding. As I enter, that resinous smell of wood I love so much hits me. I try to massage away the headache and gather my thoughts. I should start on the lounge chairs for Hanna’s new sun terrace. But next to the partially assembled pieces of furniture, leaning against the unpainted brick wall awaits the massive wooden slab I planned to craft into a table last summer.

I step closer to it and let my hand glide over the rough surface. The grain is unique. Once the wood is sanded and varnished, it will stand out even more. The curved outer edge of the slab still shows traces of the tree bark. It’s dangerously sharp, and I’ll have to remove it.

Is today the right day to continue working on this table?

I trace the fine lines in the wood, my finger getting stuck on a resin patch.

"You promised him, Noah," I remind myself, although it’s superfluous.

Because no matter what, I will never forget it.

My shoulders are heavy, and so are my arms. Every part of my body cries out for rest, yet I already slept ten hours last night. I definitely can’t lie down again. Maybe I even spent too long in bed, which is why I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.

With a deep breath, I reach for the bark spud hanging neatly on the wall alongside the other tools and carefully place it against the slab. With all the concentration I can muster, I begin to remove the tree bark. It’s damn hard. I need more strength than I can muster, at the same time, I must take care not to damage the wood underneath.

After completing a section that’s no longer than two handbreadths, I have to take a break. My stomach growls, even though I just had a double portion of porridge for breakfast. What’s wrong with me? And when will this finally stop? I just want to feel refreshed, even for one day. Energized and alert, with a clear mind and drive for everything that matters to me.

"Whining won’t get you anywhere," I admonish myself loudly, turning my attention back to the table slab. I still have five hours until my shift. If debarking becomes too exhausting, I could at least cut the wood to the right length and sand the surface.

I reach for the handsaw and check the blade. It’s sharp enough, sawing won’t demand too much from me. Now I just need a measurement. If only I could remember how long the table is supposed to be. Was it fifty or sixty inches? The harder I think, the stronger my headache becomes. At the same time, frustration wells up within me. How could I forget when it should have been burned into my brain?

Reluctantly, I decide on the longer measurement, which I can still shorten if necessary. I mark the spot and position the saw on the wood as precisely as possible. With smooth motions, I begin the task. As the first wood shavings peel away from the slab, fine dust tickles my nose and fills my lungs, causing me to cough. I’m used to it, and I know it’ll only be a minor irritation. It doesn’t stop me from continuing. And the exhaustion that spreads through my arm after just a few inches won’t stop me either. I grit my teeth and speed up.

Drops of sweat form on my forehead. The headache becomes overpowering, and dizziness takes hold of me. Only a few more inches remain before me. I can do this. Faster and faster, I let the saw blade glide through the wood while leaning over the slab to keep everything in view. But my eyelids are heavy. Incredibly heavy. With my free hand, I cling to the wood. Suddenly, the saw jerks as if hitting a knot. The thumb of my left hand feels scorching hot. I look down. Everything is covered in blood. The blade is still embedded in the wound. Instinctively, I raise my hand. My blood saturates the sleeve of my shirt like a raging mountain stream. And suddenly, I feel a burning pain.

"Dammit," I curse as I look around frantically. Over there, at the sink, hangs a towel. I rush over, yank it off the hook, wrap it tightly around my thumb, and press the wound as hard as I can. Within seconds, the light green fabric turns dark red. My finger feels like it’s carrying my pounding heart within. Dizziness washes over me. I reach into the pocket of my jeans for my phone and reluctantly dial Anita’s number. Hanna would only worry unnecessarily, and Florian will be too busy to help me.

"Are you on duty?" I ask, my voice strained, as she answers the call.

"Good morning to you too." She laughs.

"I need help. My thumb..."

"What happened?" Her carefree demeanor vanishes. "Where are you?"

"At home," I manage to say before the workshop starts spinning around me. Stars dance before my eyes.

"I’m coming." Anita's voice suddenly sounds miles away.

Weary, I sink to the floor, leaning against the workbench. This is better. The room becomes still again, and I can see clearly. But I feel how damp the towel around my left hand has become. "You can do this," I tell myself, over and over, until I hear Anita’s car. Shortly after, she storms in. Without many words, she inspects my wound. "It needs stitches."

"Mm-hmm," I reply weakly, as it’s quite obvious.

She hooks her arm underneath mine and pulls me up. "I’ll take you to Helene."

"Not necessary." Why drive into town when there’s a paramedic at the mountain rescue center? "Peter can do it."

Anita’s curls tremble as she shakes her head vigorously. "He’s on a mission."

"Then I’ll wait." It can’t take that long, and I haven’t even lost consciousness. So there’s no reason to make a fuss.

Anita regards me with an unwavering expression. "This isn't the time to be stubborn." She firmly directs me to her station wagon. "Please, sit down and fasten your seat belt."