James Naismith's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

James shifted the dirtbike into neutral and killed the engine. The settlement ahead looked smaller than the last one. He pulled the photograph from his jacket and studied it again before tucking it away. This would be his third message board in as many days. He walked past a row of weathered buildings until he found the community board. His message was already written, folded in his pocket. He pinned it up near the center where she'd see it if she came through. The coded words would mean nothing to anyone else. He stepped back and checked it once more, then headed to the general store. Inside, he asked about lumber and got directions to a supplier at the edge of town. The cabin needed better storage—fuel scattered around invited trouble. He sketched a simple shed design on the back of a receipt. Small, sloped roof, door that would stay shut in wind. He bought what he needed and loaded it onto the bike. Building it would keep his hands busy while he waited for word. The work would also mean he was serious about staying, about being findable when she finally saw one of his messages. Back at the cabin, James unloaded the lumber and started building. He measured twice, cut once, kept his hands moving. The shed took shape piece by piece—walls, roof, door with a latch that clicked shut. He stacked the fuel inside and tested the door again. It held. The next morning, he pulled out a backpack he'd modified weeks ago. The radio system was built into the frame, coded interface hidden under the straps. He carried it outside and set up the antenna, checking the frequency three times. If she had access to equipment, she might try to reach out. He switched it on and listened to static for ten minutes before turning it off. He'd check it twice a day, morning and night. The messages on the boards might take weeks to reach her. The radio gave him another chance, another way for her to find him if she was looking too. Three days later, James remembered something. The consulate kept records—old ones, archived in dusty files nobody checked anymore. He'd avoided the place for years, but if she'd crossed any official checkpoints, there'd be paperwork. He rode into the main settlement and parked outside the building. Inside, he asked to see travel documents from two years back. The clerk looked bored but pointed him to a room full of filing cabinets. James pulled drawer after drawer, scanning names and dates. His finger stopped on a familiar signature. She'd been through here, heading east toward the coast. He copied the information and left without another word. Now he had a direction. The messages would stay up, the radio would keep listening, but he could move toward where she'd been last. It was more than he'd had yesterday.