Floyd’s next task was the electrics.

  He installed a battery bank in the roof space. It would charge slowly while the turbine was running—no need to leave the system running all night. The bank held enough charge to run the lights after dark.

  He fitted the control panel, installed wiring, added sockets and switches where needed.

  A few mornings later, Floyd woke up to an unfamiliar sound.

  The waterfall.

  There must’ve been rain upstream during the night.

  He stepped outside to check. Sure enough—the weir pool was full. Water spilled over the top in a steady sheet.

  “Right,” he muttered, “let’s see if this works.”

  He opened the sluice gate and slowly turned the turbine’s intake valve.

  The turbine spun to life. Needles jumped on the gauges. He adjusted the valve until the readings were right.

  “Houston, we have power,” he said aloud, smiling.

  The line he’d run into the house lit up. He tested every socket, every light. The battery bank was charging.

  It all worked.

  That evening, he headed into town to celebrate. He found Oddball at the bar.

  “I’m buying,” Floyd said. “The turbine works. Everything does.”

  Oddball raised his glass. “Great news, bro.”

  They talked over beers until the conversation turned.

  “You oughta think about getting yourself a firearm,” Oddball said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s that time of year—black bears out fattening up for the winter.”

  “I don’t want to shoot bears.”

  “You won’t have to. Fire a warning shot, most get the message. Just make sure your outbuildings are secure or you might find one hibernating in there.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Floyd raised an eyebrow.

  “Also, raccoons, mountain lions, foxes… We’ve even seen a few wild hogs. Nasty buggers. You don’t want swine fever up here.”

  “I thought I heard something out in the woods,” Floyd said. “Saw some tracks I didn’t recognize.”

  Oddball nodded. “Need I say more?”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “12-gauge pump shotgun for starters. I’ll call Henry.”

  “It’s nearly seven—he’ll be closed.”

  But Oddball was already dialing. “He’s just locking up. Let’s go.”

  Henry, the local store owner, didn’t mind staying open late for a good customer.

  “12-gauge pump? Got a few in stock. Rifles too—.30-06 and .22-250.”

  Floyd browsed the rack.

  “Tell you what,” Henry said. “Early Thanksgiving offer—box of shells and cleaning kit with the shotgun, sling and cleaning kit with the rifle. That .30-06’s your best bet for hogs and deer. Plenty of stopping power.”

  Floyd returned home with a .30-06 bolt-action rifle and a 12-gauge pump.

  Two days later, he used the rifle.

  Four wild hogs had come rooting near the edge of the woods. Floyd didn’t have a scope, but he was no stranger to open sights. He dropped the biggest—a hefty boar—with a clean shot.

  He hauled it into town to show Oddball.

  “That’s a big old boy,” Oddball said, impressed. “Plenty of meat on him.”

  They took it to a retired butcher Oddball knew.

  The man agreed to dress and cure the hog in exchange for the head, hide, trotters, and offal.

  “That’ll keep you in meat for a month or more,” Oddball told him.

  Floyd shot two more hogs that fall. He could’ve taken a fine black-tailed buck, but he didn’t have the heart. He let it go.

  Evenings came early now. Floyd sat on the back veranda, watching the sun go down. He’d light his pipe, crack a beer, and watch the stars. He never saw any of the strange lights Oddball had mentioned.

  Snow arrived in November.

  But the house was warm and dry. The fireplaces and the stove did their jobs. Oddball had made a fireguard of stainless-steel mesh to stop stray sparks. Floyd remembered the time his family’s cat got too close to the fire when he was a kid—its tail had gone up like a torch. He could still smell it.

  On the far side of the property, Floyd had discovered a stand of sweet chestnut trees. He filled a sack and roasted the nuts in the fireplace—just like they had when he was a boy in Lawrenceburg.

  The road into town was closed for weeks at a time during winter, but it didn’t bother him. He’d stocked up on dry goods and canned food for months. Whenever he had spare cash, he added to the supply.

  Henry at the store had mentioned, “Christmas stuff’ll be in soon if you want any. I always order early, just in case.”

  Floyd hadn’t had a Christmas since leaving Lawrenceburg.

  In the army, it was simple—married men had Christmas off, single men worked it. New Year was the reverse. Floyd never gave it much thought.

  But now… he did.

  He bought a small artificial tree, three feet tall. Some tinsel, a string of fairy lights. Not too much—he’d be the only one to see it.

  From the leftover red cedar decking Oddball had brought, Floyd found a nice waney-edged plank. He sanded it smooth and carved the words Floyd’s Retreat into it.

  He’d hang it on the gatepost come spring.

  There was no TV or computer in the house, but Floyd had a radio cassette and a CD player from his tour in the Philippines.

  Winter nights were long. He’d sit by the fire with a pipe, a beer, a book, and some Rolling Stones or Pink Floyd on in the background. Sometimes Sian Surner. He had his father’s full library—Shakespeare, Dickens, H.G. Wells, Conan Doyle, and more.

  He’d been worried the weir might freeze over, but it didn’t. The turbine kept running.

  The lights stayed on.

  And Floyd had time—time to think, to plan, and to dream about what came next.