She doesn’t answer, just pulls on the rest of her clothes and walks out, closing the door between us. The soft click echoes.
I sit, staring at the closed door. Then I get up and dress.
The plow comes at eight-fifteen, the blade scraping loudly against asphalt and packed snow. Behind me, Holly zips her duffel bag.
“I’ll drive you down in your car and have Jesse or Wells drive me back.”
“Okay.” She stares at her bag.
“I’m going to check the generator.” I head out the back and check the fuel level, exhaust venting, and oil. Everything’s under control.
Except this.
I go back inside. Holly stands by the door, her bag over her shoulder and her coat zipped. She’s ready to leave.
“Coffee first.”
“I’m fine.” Her voice is steady, but she won’t meet my gaze.
Still, I pour two mugs anyway and set one on the table for her.
She takes it. Wraps both hands around it but doesn’t drink. Steam rises between us.
“Thank you,” she says finally. “For everything. The shelter. The food. Fixing my car. All of it.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do. You didn’t have to help me.”
“Yes, I did.”
She looks up at that. “Why?”
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
“Right. Of course.”
She sets the mug down, coffee rippling, untouched. “We should go.”
The drive down the mountain is quiet. Holly stares out the window, her arms crossed. I keep my eyes on the road, hands locked on the wheel, and say nothing.
The town appears through the trees. Smoke rises from chimneys. Christmas lights glow.
Normal. Safe. Everything the ridge isn’t.
I park in front of her house on Pine Street. It’s small and yellow with a sagging porch.
She’s out of the car before I can kill the engine.
“Holly—”
“Thanks for the ride.” She grabs her duffel bag from the back seat and heads up the walkway.
I follow. “Let me check inside. Make sure the heat’s working.”
“I’m fine.”
“Holly—”
