He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then: "First concert was Springsteen. I was sixteen. Drove six hours to see him."
"Springsteen." I grin. "That tracks."
"What tracks?"
"You’re all broody; it makes sense."
His eyes roll. "Your turn."
"Kelly Clarkson. Peak adolescence. I cried when she hit the high notes."
"Of course you did."
"Hey, don't judge. That woman's got pipes." I take a sip of water. "Worst job?"
"All of them had their moments."
"Come on. Give me something."
He exhales. "Construction, the summer before I enlisted. My boss was an asshole, work was brutal, and I spent three months in the Georgia heat pouring concrete."
"Why'd you enlist?" I’m intrigued about this part the most.
The question hangs between us. His face changes and I see walls going up so fast I almost miss the flash of pain beneath.
"It seemed like the right thing at the time." His voice goes flat.
Oh. The conversation is over.
I don't push. Instead, I shift gears. "What about your favorite food?"
"I don't have one." He shrugs. “I eat; that’s it.”
"Liar. Everyone has a favorite food."
He considers. "My sister used to make this lasagna; it took her all day, but it was worth every minute."
Used to.Past tense. This must be Beth’s mom.
"That sounds amazing," I say softly. "Maybe someday you'll make it."
"Maybe."
But I know he won't. I know that whatever happened to that life, to the man who ate lasagna and went to Springsteen concerts—he’s gone. He’s buried under snow and silence and years alone on this mountain.
"Cookie." Red's voice pulls me from my thoughts.
"Yeah?"
"Why'd you really come up here? Not the welfare check. The real reason."
The question catches me off guard. Sure, I could deflect or make a joke. Maybe even change the subject.
Instead, I tell him the truth.
"Because Beth asked me to. And because..." I swallow. "Because I know what it's like to spend Christmas alone. To feel like the world's moving on without you, and you're just... stuck. Going through the motions."
His eyes don't leave mine.
