The midday heat in San Cristóbal pressed down hard, turning the market air into a mix of fried food, fruit, and dust. I’m Caleb Reyes, forty, the kind of man the mountains age fast. I’d come to town for supplies—corn, nails, and real coffee—then disappear back into the sierra where people don’t ask questions.
I was lifting a heavy sack when I heard a voice that didn’t belong in the noise.
“Sir… please. Can you pretend to be my husband? Just for today.”
I should’ve kept walking. In places like this, strangers’ problems can bury you. But her voice wasn’t a hustle—it was panic.
She was about thirty, pale, shaking, wearing a worn coat that couldn’t hide how scared she was. She nodded toward a black SUV across the street, the kind that screams authority or trouble… sometimes both. A man in dark clothes scanned the plaza like he owned it.
“That’s one of them,” she whispered. “He says he’s from family services. He works for my ex. If he catches me alone again, he’ll take my daughter.”
Her daughter—Sophie, six—sat in an old sedan nearby, face pressed to the window, clutching a stuffed rabbit like a life vest. The girl wasn’t crying. She was watching—too serious for a child.
The man in the dark coat started walking toward us.
No time to debate morality. Only time to act.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Ava.”
“Okay, Ava,” I said, dropping the corn sack. “Arm through mine. Head up. Don’t shake.”
She latched onto my arm as if it were a railing over a cliff.
When the man reached us, he smiled like a predator wearing paperwork.
“Mrs. Ava,” he said, sweetly. “You missed your evaluation. That’s noncompliance. I’ll need the car keys. We’re taking the child into temporary custody.”
Ava froze. Couldn’t speak.
I stepped forward and blocked him with my body.
“I’m her husband,” I said, steady as stone. “And my wife and daughter aren’t going anywhere with you.”
He scoffed. “The file says single mother.”
“Then your file is wrong,” I replied. “Now back off.”
He leaned in and threatened state police. I leaned in closer and didn’t blink.
“I’ll investigate,” he said, furious. “If you’re lying, I’ll be back.”
I didn’t answer. I just stared until he turned away.
“Get your daughter,” I told Ava. “Not your car. He’s already got the plate.”
We ran to my old truck and got out of town before the plaza could swallow us again.
Chapter 2: The Cabin Above the World
I drove hard up dirt roads that don’t show up on maps. The higher we climbed, the weaker the signal got—and the weaker their reach felt.
Ava finally spoke, voice small. “Why did you do that?”
“Because I hate bullies,” I said. “And because I saw how you looked at your kid.”
At the top of a ridge sat my cabin—logs, stone, smoke curling from the chimney. Not luxury. Just warm, solid, hidden.
Inside, Sophie sagged onto the couch. Ava hovered at the doorway like she was afraid to breathe.
“As long as you’re under this roof,” I told her, “no one touches you.”
While I made coffee with cinnamon and raw sugar, Ava told me the truth: her ex, Grant Harlow, was connected—powerful enough to twist judges, rewrite reports, and label her “unstable” so he could steal custody. She’d been running for months.
It wasn’t a divorce dispute.
It was a hunt.
That night, I locked the door, kept a weapon close, and watched the road like war had already started—because it had.
Chapter 3: The Past Comes Up With the Smoke
Before dawn, I woke to the wind and the dying embers in the stove. Ava and Sophie slept curled together, mother’s arm still protective even in dreams.
In the kitchen, Ava appeared wearing one of my flannel shirts, eyes puffy from crying but steadier now.
I told her we needed full truth—no half stories—because if I was going to stand in front of bullets, I needed to know where they came from.
She admitted something worse: on paper, the courts could claim she “kidnapped” her own child.
Then she asked me why I really helped.
I didn’t like answering, but the cabin had a way of forcing honesty.
“I had a family,” I said. “I lost them. After that, I came up here to vanish.”
Ava didn’t pity me. She just listened.
And that was the first time in years I felt less like a ghost.
Chapter 4: The Devil at the Door
The knock wasn’t polite.
Three hard strikes that made the wood vibrate.
I hid Sophie where she couldn’t be seen and opened the door.
Two men stood there—yesterday’s “agent,” and a taller one in an expensive suit with a politician’s smile.
Grant.
He spoke smoothly. “I’m looking for my wife and daughter.”
“No wife of yours here,” I said. “Wrong mountain.”
His smile sharpened. He named my past like it was a weapon. Then he raised his voice, demanding Ava come out.
Ava stepped beside me anyway, shaking but upright.
Grant mocked her—called her crazy, called me a stranger, promised consequences.
I pulled Ava closer and said the first lie big enough to stop him in his tracks.
“She’s my fiancée. We’re getting married.”
Even the cops behind them straightened.
Grant stared like he’d been slapped.
I pushed harder—threatened exposure, headlines, scandal. Image was the only god men like him feared.
He backed off, but his eyes promised war.
“This isn’t over,” he said.
When they finally left, Ava collapsed, sobbing.
“You said we’re getting married,” she whispered.
“It was the only way to freeze him,” I admitted. “Now we have to sell it.”
“How?” she asked. “We barely know each other.”
I looked toward where Sophie was hiding, trusting us to keep the monster away.
“We learn fast,” I said. “Because the clock just started.”
And somewhere down the mountain, I could already feel the system turning its gears—coming for us like it always had.
Only this time… I wasn’t stepping aside.
