The storm hammers the ridge. Wind shears off the trees and slams into the cabin. Snow piles fast against the north wall, two feet in the last hour.
I latch the generator shed and head back inside.
Holly’s standing by the fire where I left her. Her fingers are still wrapped around that mug, and she’s hunched like she’s trying to take up less space.
Her brown hair is finally drying and curls at the ends. The flames catch the red highlights. The thermals I gave her are baggy, but she’s rolled the sleeves, exposing her wrists. Small hands. No rings.
I turn back to the generator checklist. “Generator’s solid. We’ve got heat and light for as long as the fuel holds.”
She stiffens. “How long will it hold?”
“Three days. The storm won’t last that long.”
Relief flashes across her face, then she buries it in the mug.
I move to the woodpile and stack four logs by the stove for the night. The motion settles me. Task, completion, control.
“You eat dinner?” I ask.
“I had a granola bar. Around four.”
Six hours ago. I swear under my breath, pull a pot from the hook, and set it on the stove top. “Soup. Be ready in twenty minutes.”
She opens her mouth, no doubt to protest.
“I’m making it anyway.” I cut her off before she can argue.
She closes her mouth and nods.
I work in silence. An onion, cloves of garlic, canned broth, and dried herbs from a labeled jar. Pre-chopped vegetables come out of the freezer. I add rice, stir, and cover.
I feel her watching. Know it without turning.
“Can I help?” she asks.
“No.”
“I’m good at chopping.”
“Don’t need chopping.”
“Then I can?—”
“Sit.” I gesture toward the chair. “You were driving in a whiteout. You need to warm up. Sit.”
She sits.
Wind rattles the windows. The fire pops. I stir the soup. Rosemary and garlic scents fill the cabin.
“You live here alone?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Year-round?”
“Yeah.”
“That must be…” She hesitates. “Quiet.”
