The cabin sat back off the road in the dripping trees like a part of the forest itself, earthy brown, and plain, with a skin of cedar shakes, organic but for its giveaway straight edges. In the gloomy afternoon downpour the familiar shape seemed the essence of refuge. Could it possibly have been just a year? Yes, and some days. The screened-in front porch wasn't latched, and he had already retrieved the front door key from his shaving kit, where it had been for more than a year. Cassidy backed in, dragging two big canvas equipment bags, disturbing spiders at work, breathing in the familiar scents of raw lumber, mildew, and the pepper and earthy decay of Spanish moss and north Florida piney forest. The place was perpetually unfinished inside, with stacks of building materials lying around and wiring showing in bare stud walls. Bruce wasn't kidding; he hadn't been out in a long time.