Chapter 5: Shadows and Shame

The lamp’s glow was like a stage.

The shadows flickered, growing and shrinking with every movement. It reminded me of the old theater in town, where they’d stage plays for a crowd of fifteen. But there was no audience here—just the wind, the stars, and me.

The man lay at the center, letting the woman straddle him, kissing and caressing.

He didn’t rush her—just smiled, hands gentle at first, then rougher. Aubrey’s laughter turned to moans, then to sobs. I looked away, then back again, unable to stop myself.

The curious, innocent Aubrey from earlier was gone—now she was wild, passionate, reckless.

It was like watching someone step out of their own skin. The change was shocking, and I couldn’t decide if it was thrilling or terrifying.

I’d never seen a woman so uninhibited. I forgot why I’d even come. Shame tangled with curiosity. I told myself to look away, but my eyes wouldn’t listen. Every second felt like a line I couldn’t uncross.

So this is what they mean at the bar, when they talk about a woman knocking the wind out of you.

It was true—just seeing it, I felt hot, my mouth dry. I suddenly understood all those old stories the men at the bar would whisper about wild nights and summer flings.

So, a rich man could enjoy such pleasures.

If you had money, power, you could have anything—or anyone—you wanted. I felt a sick envy twist in my chest.

I stared, not wanting to miss a second.

I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t look away. I tried to justify it—saying I was just making sure Aubrey was safe. But the truth was uglier.

I don’t know how long it lasted. Eventually, Mr. Knox and Aubrey slowed down, lying side by side in the grass, holding hands and gazing at the stars.

Their bodies glowed in the afterlight. They whispered, laughing softly. It looked almost peaceful.

As they watched, their feelings deepened. Aubrey nestled on Mr. Knox’s shoulder.

She traced little circles on his chest, her eyes half-closed. He looked down at her with a tenderness I’d never seen before.

Only then did I realize my whole body was stiff—lying there so long, my legs were numb.

I flexed my toes, pins and needles racing up my calves. The cold from the ground was seeping into my bones.

I rolled over onto my back in the grass too, the Milky Way exploding above me.

The sky looked huge—stars everywhere, the kind you never see in the city. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

I’d grown up here—the wildness of the land, the harshness of life.

My mom used to say the mountains raised us as much as she did. Every scar on my hands, every callus, was a lesson the land had taught me. I wondered if Aubrey or Mr. Knox ever thought about that—how nature could break you just as easily as it could feed you.

Even in my dreams, I only dared hope for a wife who wasn’t crippled or troubled.

I’d always lowered my expectations, thinking I’d be lucky if anyone ever wanted me at all. Seeing them together, it felt like a cruel joke.

And here I’d just witnessed, with my own eyes, how men and women could blend together like that.

I realized I’d been living in a shadow of the real world—always watching, never touching. It hurt, but I couldn’t look away.

I closed my eyes, listening to the insects and the wind, when suddenly I thought of Natalie again.

The image of her chained ankle flashed behind my eyelids. I jolted upright, guilt flooding me.

She hadn’t come back to town. Was she still in the tent?

My mouth went dry. I scanned the shadows for any sign of movement. I told myself I had to know, even if I was afraid of the answer.

I turned to look at Mr. Knox. The two were still snuggled together.

He kissed the top of Aubrey’s head, then whispered something that made her laugh again.

Those two turns had shifted me a few feet to the side, and now something near the tent came into view.

A flash of color caught my eye—a blue sleeping bag, half-zipped, right behind the couple.

I crawled a little farther and finally saw clearly:

Natalie was sitting right behind Aubrey, wrapped in a sleeping bag, just watching Mr. Knox and Aubrey.

Her eyes were wide, glassy—like someone watching a movie they couldn’t escape. Her face was expressionless, but her hands twisted in the fabric of the sleeping bag.

My nerves snapped.

A cold sweat broke out across my back. I felt like I’d wandered into some nightmare that wouldn’t end.

What kind of three-way relationship was this?

I tried to wrap my mind around it, but nothing made sense. Was Natalie a prisoner? A lover? A witness?

Aubrey was making love to Mr. Knox under the stars, while Natalie just sat quietly watching?

The idea made my stomach churn. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out.

I tried to steady my breath, but it felt like my blood was boiling.

Every muscle in my body tensed, as if preparing for a fight. But there was no one to fight but myself.

Right.

This was real. This was happening. I couldn’t just pretend it was a bad dream anymore.

I looked again—Natalie’s sleeping bag wasn’t tightly wrapped.

Her arms poked out, and I could see the chain at her ankle, gleaming in the moonlight.

She was still wearing the same stockings I’d seen during the day, the chain still on her ankle.

She hadn’t changed clothes. No one had given her a chance to. The stockings were dirty now, torn at the toes.

Had she always dressed like this?

I tried to remember if she’d worn them in town, or if Mr. Knox had made her change once she arrived.

I thought I understood—it was Mr. Knox who made her dress like this.

The realization made me want to throw up. He controlled everything—what they wore, where they slept, how they moved.

They were all Mr. Knox’s toys. This was what he liked.

It was power, plain and simple. He wanted to own them, to break them, to make them watch each other.

On nights like this, there were still three women staying at my house.

The thought chilled me. What if they were next? What if I was helping him, even without meaning to?

He liked them young and cute, liked mixed-race models, liked those dripping with jewels, liked mature, alluring women.

He collected women the way some men collect baseball cards—one of every kind, never satisfied. I wondered what happened when he got bored.

Mr. Knox called for deliveries at Mushroom Rock, and I was the delivery man.

It hit me all at once—the part I played in all of this. I was the one who made it possible. I wanted to scream, but instead, I just lay there, paralyzed.

Aubrey curled up, shivering a little from the cold.

The night air had gotten sharper. She wrapped her arms around her knees, teeth chattering. I wondered if she regretted anything now, or if she was just waiting for someone to tell her what to do next.

Mr. Knox waved, and Natalie shuffled over in her sleeping bag.

She moved slowly, the chain clinking quietly. It sounded so out of place against the hush of the wild. She kept her head down, avoiding his gaze.

She walked oddly, taking tiny, bouncing steps, as if she desperately needed to pee.

Her movements were awkward—almost childlike. It made me ache to watch her.

When she reached Mr. Knox, she pulled the sleeping bag over all three of them.

The fabric rustled as she tried to fit herself into the tiny space. Mr. Knox didn’t say a word, just opened his arms and let her settle in.

I guessed there must be a mat underneath, otherwise it’d be too uncomfortable.

I pictured the ground—hard, cold, unforgiving. They must have laid out foam pads, but it was still no hotel bed.

With a woman on each arm, I didn’t feel shocked anymore.

It was strange how quickly things became normal. Just last night, I’d have been horrified. Now, it felt like the mountain itself had changed the rules.

Just like when I first started as a guide—the first trip was full of anxiety and surprise, but after a few more, nothing seemed unusual.

The mountain had a way of erasing your boundaries, making you accept things you never thought you could.

That’s just how things are between men and women.

Or so I told myself. The world was broken in a hundred ways, and this was just another crack in the foundation.

I crawled back until the slope hid me completely, then sat up. My stomach churned. I felt dirty, complicit—like just by watching, I’d done something wrong.

There was no point in staying here any longer.

Whatever happened next, it would happen with or without me watching. I couldn’t help them—not really. I was just a bystander, a witness.

If I hurried back now, I’d reach home by midnight, and still have to get up early to cook for the guests.

I thought about the old alarm clock by my bed, about the coffee pot I’d set out the night before. Normal things, comforting things. I clung to them like a lifeline.

Whatever Mr. Knox was doing up there, whatever those women wanted—or were forced to want—I told myself it wasn’t my business. But I knew that was a lie.

“As long as people are alive, that’s enough,” I thought.

I repeated it like a prayer, hoping it would be true. If I could just get through tonight, maybe things would make sense in the morning.

Back home, I barely slept a wink all night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw chains and stockings and cold, empty faces. I paced the living room, counted cracks in the ceiling, wished for morning to come sooner.

The shock to my mind made me question, again and again, why people live at all.

I thought about my dad—how he’d survived a war, then wasted away in a factory job. About my mom, who always found something to laugh about, even when the roof leaked. Why do any of us keep going? Habit? Hope? Fear?

At dawn, I heard voices in the yard.

The sun was barely up, the light thin and gray. I pulled back the curtain and listened, heart pounding.

“Ms. Dana, you’re up so early.”

It was Faith’s voice, gentle but strong. She sounded almost maternal.

“Have you decided?”

Ms. Dana’s tone was clipped, businesslike. No hint of emotion.

“I… I’ve decided. Let me meet Mr. Knox today.”

There was a tremor in Faith’s voice—half hope, half fear.

“What you want is important, but there’s no rush. You should think it over.”

Ms. Dana always played the long game, never rushing anyone into anything unless it suited her.

“I’ve thought it through, Ms. Dana. Let me go.”

She sounded desperate, like someone begging for a second chance. I pressed my ear to the glass.

Lying by the window, I saw the three guests in the yard.

They looked out of place—city clothes in the wild, expensive haircuts, perfect nails. The birds were louder than their voices, but I caught bits and pieces.

Ms. Dana and Faith were talking. Yasmine was stretching—her silhouette was backlit by the rising sun, looking more like a yoga instructor than a hiker.

She arched her back, arms reaching overhead, hair spilling down her shoulders. For a moment, she looked like a dancer at the end of a show, exhausted but radiant.

“This inn looks simple, but the rooms are quite nice. Mr. Knox’s places are always special.”

Yasmine’s voice had a musical quality, making the mundane sound like a compliment.

“The guide’s cooking isn’t bad either—all local ingredients.”

She smiled, catching my eye through the window. I ducked back, embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping.

“Yasmine, come have some tea.”

Faith poured from a thermos, the steam rising in little ghosts. The three of them gathered on the porch, laughter blending with the morning air.

The three women sat down, chatting in low voices.

They huddled together as if sharing secrets, faces close, words meant only for each other.

After what I saw last night, I was sure Ms. Dana was like a madam from an old brothel.

I’d only heard stories—never thought I’d see the real thing. She had the same cool authority, the same calculating kindness.

She was in charge of finding women for Mr. Knox, sending them one by one for his pleasure.

The idea made my skin crawl, but I couldn’t deny it. She managed everything—who went, when, how long they stayed.

They weren’t like the women from cheap salons—those were beneath Mr. Knox’s taste.

Everything about them was curated, expensive. He wanted quality, and Ms. Dana delivered.

These must have been high-class women I’d never even heard of.

Women with histories, with secrets. I wondered what brought them here, what kept them from running away.

Mr. Knox’s tastes were truly peculiar.

It wasn’t just about beauty or money. He wanted control, power, devotion. He wanted to own them, inside and out.

I lay awake, waiting for morning, but sleep wouldn’t come. Somewhere out there, Mr. Knox still held all the cards—and I was the one who kept dealing them.