I waged a silent war with my hands, desperate to keep them still as the middle aged man sitting at his desk across from me studied my résumé. He held the ivory parchment paper between a thumb and forefinger while his other hand absently rubbed his jaw. Sooner or later he would pop the question, and as much as I have rehearsed the answer, it never seems to convince any administrator.

An abrupt sigh broke the silence. "Lucy Dawes," the principal said my name as if reading it aloud from the header of my résumé, "your credentials are impressive: Fulbright scholar, Master's degree, five years under your belt at a Title I school, National Boards. I'm not going to waste your time and mine with the usual tedious questions. We both know you're qualified. What I would really like to know is: why Forks High?"

Why give up tenure in an up and coming school district in California for a teaching position in a one-horse town like Forks, Washington? I could author a doctoral thesis on the subject of 'crazy is an understatement' and still fail to give justice to the truth behind the dreaded question.

So, as with all the previous interviews of the past two weeks, I delivered my rehearsed response, "I have grown up and then taught in the same school district. I'd like to diversify my experience. I feel this would be important for me as a foreign language teacher."

"So why not teach abroad?" he asked. "You're single, childless. You've taught in France during your Fulbright experience. Wouldn't that be the logical choice for a French teacher looking to broaden her horizons?"

I hoped the principal did not notice how I squirmed in my seat like a deviant student awaiting his judgment. "I have – that is to say – I do not want to go overseas anytime soon. I had a bad experience…" My voice trembled into nothing as I struggled and failed to respond without revealing the shard of grief that pierced my heart just then.

Fortunately, he chose to move on. "So if I hire you, will you eventually decide that you made a bad decision and rush back to California?"

I smiled wryly as I replied, "No, I could not think of a worse decision than turning back now."

He returned the smile and extended a hand across the desk. "The position is yours then, if you are still willing."

I accepted his hand and made sure I shook it firmly. "I am, and thank you."

When selecting living arrangements, two options caught my eye. One was a large home on the outskirts of town. It was well above my means, but I could not help looking into it. Apparently, the proprietors had not used the home for over two decades, so town officials had requested they sell or at least rent the property to prevent it falling prey to vandals, and they had opted for the latter. The home was absolutely lovely, somewhat à la Frank Lloyd Wright, but not destined to be occupied by a single woman earning a teacher's salary.

The other was a small, two room sided house near La Push, a reservation within driving distance of my work. I could boast no Native American ancestry, but having studied foreign language, the cultural aspects of the location appealed greatly to my sensibilities. The house was up for sale, but I had saved enough for a down payment, and a mortgage payment would be less than rent would have been elsewhere.

After little deliberation, I officially became a homeowner three weeks before the beginning of the school year.

My neighbors were kind, and all Quileute to my delight. They offered to assist with my move, but I politely declined. I had managed to move my meager belongings into my new home the day of closing. The house was bare, but I would gradually add additional furniture. It's not as if I planned to do any entertaining in the near future.

That first evening in my new home, I celebrated privately with a leisurely stroll about the area. My hair quickly became damp in the mist, but I did not mind. I was fascinated by the lush emerald forest that crept nearly to my back door. In the failing light, the air itself was clad in the green of its surrounds. The contrast to Southern California struck me deeply, and I relished the change. Of course, I might not be as enthusiastic about my decision when winter rears its head.

As darkness crept closer, I settled at the roots of a large elm tree within sight of my back yard and relaxed to the voice of Loreena McKennitt on my iPod Nano. Oddly enough, I found that spot upon the cool ground against the tree trunk as comfortable as the recliner in my living room. The air was warm despite the damp, and it soothed my lungs which had been too long accustomed to dry desert air. I watched the sylvan shadows upon the forest floor turn from gold to silver until sleep took me.

I stood before my new classroom, but it was empty. A glance at the clock told me it should have been first period. My new students were gone. Terror held me relentlessly in place and forced me to look upon the empty seats.

Empty seats. I will never recover from the horror of them. Empty seats, missing children, parents enraged in their grief.

My new principal stepped in, questions spilling from his eyes as they met mine.

"I lost them. I'm so sorry. I looked everywhere but couldn't find them."

He said nothing but the questions remained.

"I don't know what to say. My students mean everything to me."

There was no change.

"Please say something!"

At last, the principal at least moved. He stepped closer until I could feel his breath upon my face in cold, fragrant puffs. As tears spilled upon my cheeks, they grew chilled beneath his arctic breath. An icy finger traced a straight line from my dewy forehead to my slightly parted lips where it lingered for a moment.

I awoke then. It was the strange contrast of warmth and cold that did it. The night was yet warm but my lips so cold it was as if I had pressed an ice cube between them.

My green fairyland had disappeared. I looked uncertainly into the dark forest though my eyes did not penetrate very far. I felt lonely but not completely alone.

I hastened inside and locked doors and windows with shaking hands.

My front door shook under the pounding of a heavy fist. I awoke with a yelp and hoped my visitor didn't hear it.

I quickly pulled on a robe before opening the door to find a tall, middle aged Quileute looking upon my small form with a speculative expression. He was not one of my neighbors and certainly did not seem quite as friendly.

"I apologize for disturbing you so early," he said woodenly. His eyes roved above my head seeming to scan the interior of my home, and I nervously pulled the door tight against my side in defense. He must have noticed my unease and his eyes softened. "I'm Sam Uley. I belong to the tribal council in La Push."

He stiffly held out a hand for me to shake. I hate how my hand trembled as I reached for his.

"Lucy Dawes. I'm the new French teacher at FHS."

He nodded in acknowledgement. "Your move go alright?"

"Yes, thank you."

Awkwardly running a hand through his hair he said, "Just wanted to welcome you. This neighborhood is outside of La Push, but the council still holds some – uh, jurisdiction here." He pushed a slightly crinkled business card into my hand. "Call us if you need anything."

I nodded and watched as he backed away towards his truck. After scanning the area once more he stepped inside the cab and drove away. I glanced down at the card in my hand and noticed with confused interest that it was for an auto repair shop. I shrugged and went inside to get ready for the day.