Neither do I.
I want to defend myself.
Want to explain about market pressures and shareholder expectations and the impossible choices of running a global corporation. Want to detail all the jobs my company provides, all the green technology that wouldn’t exist without our minerals.
But those justifications just evaporate on my tongue.
Because she’s right.
I knew better and I did it anyway.
“I’m... I’m sorry,” I hear myself say. “For... all of it. Brazil. Your grandmother’s village...”
It’s not enough. Can never be enough. But it’s all I have.
Her eyes widen slightly. Like she wasn’t expecting an actual apology.
“Thank you for saying that.” She picks up her book again. “Even if it doesn’t change what happened.”
She’s right about that, too.
She turns her back on me, and just like that my little mycorrhizal education session is done.
The restof the afternoon passes in a strange, charged quiet while the storm rages outside. She reads while I tend the fire and try not to watch her too obviously. But my eyes keep drifting back. To the curve of her neck when she bends over the book. To her lips moving slightly as she reads. To those small gestures I’m cataloging like a mining survey, mapping every detail.
As the light outside shifts to the gray of winter dusk, my stomach reminds me we haven’t eaten since lunch.
“I’ll get something for dinner,” I say, standing.
She looks up from her book. “I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” She’s already setting the book aside. “But I should check the storage anyway.”
We bundle up and trudge back out to the north side. The temperature has dropped even further than earlier. The wind tears away my breath before mist can even form. Snow drives horizontally into my face, stinging exposed skin like thrown gravel. It finds every gap in my clothing, sneaking under my collar, beneath my hood, melting against my neck in icy rivulets.
Within thirty seconds my cheeks are numb. Within a minute I can’t feel my lips.
It’s the kind of cold that makes you understand how people die out here. How quickly the mountain stops caring about your net worth.
We move quickly. The bins are undisturbed. Sorrel does her methodical check while I grab one of the chickens Vin left. Whole bird, frozen solid.
Back inside, we both head straight for the fire. I drop the chicken on the coffee table and hold my hands out to the flames. The warmth feels like needles pricking my frozen skin.
Sorrel pulls off her gloves with shaking fingers, her cheeks bright red from windburn. She crouches close to the hearth, practically climbing into the fireplace.
“Christ,” she mutters. “That was brutal.”
“Yeah.” I flex my fingers, trying to work feeling back into them. The tips are white, bordering on frostbite territory despite the gloves I’d worn. Not quite there yet, but close enough to be concerning. “A lot colder than earlier.”
We stay there for several minutes, neither of us speaking, just absorbing heat. Gradually the shaking stops. Color returns to her face. My fingers start cooperating again.
“Okay,” she says finally, standing and rubbing her arms. “I think I can actually use my hands now.”
She takes over the kitchen again. Runs the frozen chicken under cold water from one of our melted snow containers to start the thawing process.
“This is going to take a while,” she says. “Maybe an hour before I can cook it properly.”
