The boys stood in the center of the cabin, awash in the gray morning light.

“Go find a backpack or something to carry all our gear,” Isaac said to Simon, who was clinging to his arm. “And you have to promise not to cry, do you understand?”

“I’m not gonna cry,” Simon replied with a shaky voice.

“Because if you do…”

“I said I’m not gonna cry,” answered Simon firmly.

Isaac studied his brother. “All right. Get going then.”

Simon swallowed hard and cautiously walked toward the hallway, peeking around the corner before entering.

Isaac started in the kitchen. He rummaged through the drawers and cabinets and opened the refrigerator, wincing at the musty smell. He knew there wouldn’t be any food items anywhere in the kitchen, for his mother was always extremely thorough about not leaving anything for the rats and other vermin each time they left. But he felt he had to try regardless.

After a minute or two of searching and not finding any food, Isaac stood in front of the last drawer. He grabbed the cold handle and pulled, revealing inserts filled with knives.

He stared at them, unsure of which ones he would need, so he took one of each: a steak knife, a paring knife, a carving knife, and a chef’s knife. He closed the drawer, but after a moment of thought, he reopened it and grabbed the meat cleaver, surprised by how heavy it was.

***

The boys studied the items spread out on the living room rug—the knives, a coil of green paracord rope, a box of matches, three Band-Aids, black electrical tape, a roll of toilet paper, two bottles of water, and a bedsheet with a print of pink, purple, and white daisies.

Isaac knelt and promptly started packing these articles into a small backpack that Simon had found, one their father had used on their day hikes. After finishing, he put the backpack on, tightened the straps, and walked around the cabin’s living room in a circle.

“It’s not so bad,” he said. “Not heavy at all.”

“But I can hear the knives clinking,” replied Simon in a fearful tone.

“Right…” Isaac realized what his brother meant. He took off the backpack, knelt on the floor again, and took everything out.

He grabbed the paring knife and began to cut a part of the bedsheet into short ribbons and sheathed each knife individually with cloth, securing the binding with electrical tape. Afterward, he replaced all the items in the backpack and circled the living room again.

Isaac raised his brows as if to ask, Good? Simon answered with a deepening frown.

***

The early morning sun breached the distant hills and the last fingers of the dense fog clung to the valley floor. The brothers stepped out of the cabin, outside for the first time in many weeks. Isaac noticed the gravel where the wheels of their father’s car had slipped, revealing the dark dirt underneath.

“We gotta get to those trees and stay out of sight as much as possible,” Isaac said.

“I can’t,” Simon responded, shaking his head. “I wanna go back to the cellar.”

It was still cold enough for Isaac to see his brother’s breath come out in short, rapid plumes that dissipated quickly.

“We can’t,” Isaac said firmly. “If we do, we’re going to starve to death, do you understand?”

After a slight pause, Simon nodded.

“Let’s go then,” Isaac said. “Here, you can take my hand.”

Simon gripped his brother’s hand tightly while never taking his eyes off the trees directly ahead. The tree line started several hundred yards out and beyond the meadow of deer grass and chaparral.

As they started to walk, the gravel under Isaac’s sneakers seemed to explode every time he took a step, reminding him of microwave popcorn. But soon, thankfully, they stepped off the gravel and onto the dirt road, which took them to the footpath that wound through tall weeds that reached past Simon’s head and almost to Isaac’s chin.

“You’re going to have to let go of my hand now. It’s too narrow here for us to walk side by side,” Isaac said. “But you can grab onto the back of my jacket if you need to.”

Perhaps it was the abruptness or the desperation, but Isaac felt a twinge of annoyance when Simon roughly grabbed the back of his jacket. Isaac was about to yell at him not to pull so hard, but he managed to restrain himself after he made sure Simon heard his sigh and saw his eyes rolling.

“Come on,” Isaac said, his annoyance barely hidden.

The two followed the well-worn footpath through the field, a path they had taken countless times in the past summers when they had played hide and seek and hunted grasshoppers among the chaparral. Soon, they made it into the woods, where patches of snow still lay beneath the shadows of towering pines.

“Okay, we’re here. It’s going to be safer for us in these trees,” Isaac said, gently but firmly pulling Simon’s grip off his jacket. “We need sticks. Are you listening? If it bends, or if you can break it, it’s useless to us. Find ones that are as thick as your thumb, okay?”

“Okay,” Simon responded, still not completely at ease.

The two boys stepped gingerly through the crackling twigs and deeper into the woods, picking up branches along the way and bending them to test their durability.

“Isaac!” Simon yelled. “Come here! Quick!”

Isaac gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to yell back to tell Simon to keep his voice down. Impatiently, he joined Simon, who was staring down into a ditch.

“What is it?” Isaac said sharply.

“Look,” Simon said, pointing down at a large, decomposed animal. Its bones were half-buried in the dirty snow, and its gray fur was caked with mud. “What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can we eat it?”

“Are you stupid? How would we eat that?”

“But I’m hungry...”

“Listen, we have three cans of beef stew back at the cabin. If we don’t catch anything today, we can have one can, and I’ll give you most of it, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now, come on. We need more sticks. How many have you found?”

Simon produced a solitary stick from his pocket. Isaac sighed with exasperation once again and rolled his eyes.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

After several more minutes of scouring, the boys had the sticks they needed. They found a log, where they sat, and Isaac took off the backpack. He withdrew the paring knife and pulled it out of its cloth sheath. He spotted a smooth rock jutting out of the earth. He dug it out and hefted the stone. Satisfied, he turned to Simon.

“I need you to hold the end of the stick, like this, do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Simon said with a tired voice.

“Don’t move it,” Isaac ordered, emphasizing each word.

“I won’t.”

With Simon bracing one end of the stick, Isaac set the knife's edge against the wood at the opposite end, and he lightly struck the back of the knife with the rock. He struck it again, more firmly, and the knife was almost through. One more time and the knife neatly took off a curled shaving of wood, tapering the stick at one end.

Feeling more relief than elation, Isaac continued to chisel at the wood until it was sharp. He held up the point and admired it. It had taken him only two or three minutes. After another thirty minutes or so, the boys had a dozen finely sharpened sticks.

“We have to get going. It’s getting late.” Isaac said.