"Dad cried when Mom died," Finn said matter-of-factly. "It's okay to cry about big things."
Brad's face did something complicated before settling into resigned acceptance. "Let's get Miss Serena settled, okay?"
The guest room was nicer than most hotels I'd stayed in—king-sized bed with enough pillows to build a fort, en-suite bathroom, a view that would be spectacular when it wasn't obscured by horizontal snow. Brad showed me the backup power system, the emergency supplies in the closet, the landline that still worked if I needed anything.
"This is too much," I protested. "I can sleep on the couch—"
"You're staying here," he said with the same tone he probably used to call plays on the ice. "The storm's supposed to last at least another day, maybe two. Your cabin's compromised. End of discussion."
"Bossy."
"Practical." But he smiled slightly. "Try to get some sleep. We'll deal with repair and everything else tomorrow."
He paused at the door, his silhouette powerful against the hallway light. "I'm glad you're safe. When I think about what could have happened if that tree had fallen differently..."
"But it didn't," I said softly. "I'm okay."
"Yeah," he said, voice rough. "Yeah, you are."
Chapter 8: Brad
The morning light struggled through my bedroom windows, muted and gray through the relentless curtain of falling snow—that dim, suffocating half-light that made the world outside look like static on an old television screen. I checked my phone: 5:47 AM. Every major road in the county remained closed indefinitely. Emergency services were overwhelmed. The storm showed no signs of stopping, and we were trapped.
I found Serena already in my kitchen, moving around the space with quiet efficiency. She'd located my coffee maker, the good mugs I kept in the back of the cabinet, even the filters I'd relocated three times in the past month. She wore my oldAvalanchehoodie, the navy fabric swallowing her frame, sleeves rolled up multiple times to free her hands.
The domestic sight hit me like a check into the boards.
“Sorry,” she said, catching my look, and offered a steaming cup of coffee. "I couldn't sleep, and I didn't want to wake anyone."
"It's fine." I took the coffee and moved past her to check Finn's morning medication schedule on the refrigerator chart. "Coffee's better when someone else makes it anyway."
She'd already filled Finn's special mug—the one with the hockey pucks that changed color with heat—with warm milk and set out his morning pills beside a glass of water. The observation should have bothered me: someone else anticipating my son's needs, infiltrating our carefully constructed routine. Instead, I felt something dangerously close to relief.
"Storm pancakes!" Finn's voice preceded him down the stairs by several seconds. He appeared in the doorway wearing his favorite dinosaur pajamas, hair sticking up in twelve directions. "Dad, we have to make storm pancakes. It's tradition."
"What makes them storm pancakes?" Serena asked, and Finn rushed over to quickly down his milk as if it were a race. After taking his morning pills with water, he launched into an elaborate explanation involving extra chocolate chips, whipped cream mountains, and strategic maple syrup rivers.
I started pulling ingredients while she naturally fell into assistant mode—finding the mixing bowls in the lower cabinet, reaching for the chocolate chips I'd hidden on the top shelf. She kept Finn entertained with questions about his pancake architecture plans while I measured flour with unnecessary precision.
"How many chocolate chips per pancake?" she asked, holding the bag just out of reach.
"Seven!" Finn declared. "No, nine."
"Miss Serena needs storm pancakes too," he continued, turning to me. "She's stuck here just like when we got stuck at the airport that time, remember Dad? Except better because we have board games."
"That was different," I said, whisking the batter perhaps more vigorously than needed. "This won't last as long."
The news playing on my phone suggested otherwise. Power outages affected sixty percent of the county. The death toll from accidents and exposure continued rising. Serena caught my eye and subtly moved between Finn and the screen.
"Hey Finn," she said, checking the time. "Isn't it about time for your breathing treatment? We want to make sure you're ready for all those storm pancakes."
"But I'm helping cook—"
"You can do both," she said gently, already reaching for the nebulizer.
As I managed the griddle with one hand, Serena helped position Finn on the bar stool, holding the nebulizer steady while he breathed in the medication. The domestic choreography worked surprisingly well—she made silly faces to keep him from getting restless, while I flipped pancakes in increasingly elaborate ways to hold his attention. She didn't hover or question my methods, just seamlessly integrated the medical routine into our morning chaos as if she'd done it a hundred times before.
"Can we build a fort today?" Finn asked between breaths. "A really big one? With the couch cushions and everything?"
