Suddenly, a sharp, metallic sound echoed from the front of the cabin.

I sat up straight, my heart hammering against my ribs.

My hand went instantly to the cold metal of the pistol in my pocket.

It was not the sound of the wind.

It was the distinct, heavy clunk of the generator shed door being pulled open in the yard.

I stood up, keeping my body low and out of the line of sight of the window.

The twins were still asleep, their breathing rhythmic and deep.

I crept toward the kitchen window that faced the side yard where the generator sat.

The rain had turned to a thick, grey fog that clung to the bases of the fir trees.

Through the mist, I saw a shape.

It was a tall figure in a dark, hooded slicker, standing by the open door of the generator shed.

The figure held a small flashlight, its beam pointing down at the fuel lines.

They were not supposed to be here yet.

The trap at the mill was not scheduled until tomorrow night.

My fingers tightened around the grip of the pistol.