Cabin Fever by Janet Sanders

when it seemed like a great adventure to take the saw in his hands, smell the gasoline from where it had sloshed a little bit as he poured it into the tank, and pull the cord with a single, violent motion to feel it come alive in his hands. Back then the fact that using a chain saw could be dangerous had been part of its appeal. That meant that his father believed that he was capable of taking care of himself. That meant that he could be trusted to use tools by himself. It meant that he was, or at least was close to becoming, a man.
    Now it wasn’t as thrilling and romantic as it used to be, but Brad was still able to take satisfaction in the task. Cutting firewood was hard work, which was why he was happy to take it on for his father, whose back wasn’t getting any better these days, particularly with the gut he’d developed since he moved here after Brad’s mother passed away. With the roar of the saw drowning out all the background noise, Brad could sink into the task and let his thoughts take him. It was funny, he knew, but he always thought that working with the saw was kind of peaceful. It was noisy, sure, but the noise created a bubble in which he could be alone with his thoughts.
    And the truth was, Brad had a lot of thoughts these days, and he didn’t know what to do with most of them. He wasn’t going to be playing any more football, that was for sure. If he ever forgot that fact, the ache of his knees when he got out of bed in the morning served as a dull, throbbing reminder. He had managed to play through three surgeries, two on the left knee and one on the right, but the damage piled up to the point where he couldn’t really run anymore. Unless you’re a kicker or a quarterback, you have to be able to run. A slow NFL player is an ex-NFL player. Brad had been in the league for seven years, which was longer than most, and in that time he’d seen plenty of veterans who wore out their bodies and were forced to clean out their lockers. He had always known that sooner or later it would be his turn, and now, at last, it was.
    He understood why the team didn’t want him back, but still it was hard to accept. He wasn’t even thirty years old, but he was already washed up. Part of him felt like his life was over. He probably had another forty years to go before he’d cash in his chips, and right now that seemed like a lot of living to do without football. Brad considered himself a pretty down-to-earth guy. Even when he was making more money than he could spend, his closet was full of the jeans and flannel shirts that he wore every day. He didn’t need the money, but he had to admit that he missed the glory, the roar of the crowd, and the way people’s eyes would light up when they recognized him on the street or in a restaurant. Playing football in front of a hundred thousand fans was an incredible rush.  
    And then there were the women. Oh man, the women!  
    He wasn’t ready to give that all up. Not yet, and maybe not ever. It worried him that he might take that feeling, that mixture of longing and regret, with him to his grave. Of course, there might be a way to get back to the show, but Brad wasn’t ready to talk with anyone about that yet. It was still just an idea in the back of his head that he turned over and over as if it were a quarter he found on the street, considering whether the chance of success that it offered was worth the steep cost that he’d have to pay.  
    He put a boot on the log in front of him and cut deeply into it, the saw chattering in his strong hands. His father’s wood-burning stove had a narrow mouth, so he had to cut the logs into narrow chunks that would fit through it when you were feeding the fire. The saw chewed through wood fiber and sent powerful vibrations up through his hands, up his arms, and into his shoulders and chest as sawdust flew up into the air. All things considered he didn’t notice the woman until she was standing nearly in front of him, her hands on