“Why?”
“The fuel is almost gone,” I explain. “And the delivery truck won’t be able to get through until the storm breaks.”
She frowns. “So what do we do for heat?”
“The fireplace in the great room,” I explain. “It’s the only fireplace in the house.”
“Onefireplace?” She snorts in disbelief. “In a house this size?”
I can only shake my head. “This place was built for luxury, not survival.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she says, “What are we going to have for breakfast? I’m starving.”
I gesture at the stove. “I made pasta last night. There’s some left.”
“You made pasta?” She looks genuinely surprised.
“Don’t sound so shocked. I’m not completely helpless.”
She folds her arms over her chest. “You couldn’t make coffee.”
“Coffee is different.”
“How?”
“It just is.” I pull the leftover pasta from the fridge. It looks sad and congealed in the morning light. “This was better before.”
“I’m sure it was fine.” She moves to the stove. Before I can stop her, she’s adding olive oil to a pan and reheating the pasta. She opens one of the cupboards and adds herbs from Vin’s collection.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” I chide her, but as the kitchen fills with the smell of garlic and herbs, my stomach can’t help but growl.
“Iamresting. Cooking is relaxing.” She doesn’t look at me. Just focuses on the pan. “Besides, you saved my life last night. Least I can do is salvage your pasta.”
When she’s done, we eat in silence at the kitchen island. The pasta is actually good now. She made something more than decent out of my mediocre leftovers.
Either way, it’s good to see her finally eating.
“What were you actually doing out there?” I ask between bites. “In the field. How do you study ecosystems that are buried under snow?”
“Soil cores,” she replies between bites. “I drill down through the snow to the ground level. Take samples. Test for fungal networks, nutrient content, pH levels.” Her face lights up when she talks about it. “Mycorrhizal fungi are incredible. They connect trees underground. Share nutrients. Support the whole forest ecosystem. Some people even think they’re telepathic to a degree. But... mining destroys them. My research is about rebuilding those networks after they’ve been destroyed.”
I think about my mines in Colorado. In Vietnam. In Brazil. The leaked documents that detailed exactly how much damage we knew we were causing, and not just to fungi.
“You think it’s worth it?” I ask. “Spending your life fixing something that will just get destroyed again?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “Because someone has to try. Someone has to care.”
Someone has to care.
When did I stop caring?
When did extraction become just numbers on a spreadsheet instead of actual earth being ripped apart?
I don’t have an answer.
And I don’t like the way she’s looking at me. Like she sees straight through the expensive watch and the cashmere sweater to the hollowed-out space where my principles used to be.
I’m stuck here with a woman who represents everything I’ve spent ten years destroying.
