Part 40
Inside, the cabin was small and smelled intensely of salt, dried pine, and decades of complete isolation.
Derek found an old oil lamp on a shelf, lighting it to reveal a simple room with two cots and a wooden table.
I set the backpack down, carefully removing the leather ledger and placing it under the warm amber glow of the lamp.
"We need to see what's on this drive," Derek said, pulling a rugged laptop from his own bag—the one thing he insisted on packing.
He booted it up, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he connected the USB drive to the port.
A prompt immediately flashed on the screen, requiring an alphanumeric encryption key to grant access to the files.
"It’s password protected," Derek sighed, leaning back in frustration. "It could take a software program weeks to crack this."
I stared at the screen, then down at the ledger, looking at the intricate oak tree design on the cover.
"Your father didn't use random passwords, Derek. He always used dates or names that meant something to us."
I closed my eyes, searching my memory for the numbers that defined our lives before the chaos began.
"Try the date we planted the first garden at the old house," I suggested softly, a tear threatening to fall.
May you like
"The day we decided to settle down and build a real home."
Derek typed in the numbers, his finger hovering over the enter key for a long, tense beat before pressing it down.
