“That’s the point.”
She doesn’t ask more. Smart woman.
I portion out two bowls when the rice is tender and give her the one with a spoon. She takes it carefully, as if I might change my mind.
“Thank you,” she says.
I take the other bowl to the counter. Standing while I eat makes it easier to move if the fire needs tending.
She eats slowly, taking small, methodical bites. “It’s good. Really good.”
“It’s soup.”
“Still.”
I finish mine, rinse the bowl, and place it in the drying rack. Her bowl’s still half full, but she’s slowing down, her eyelids heavy.
The lights flicker.
She tenses.
“Thunder-snow,” I say. “Electrical charge in the clouds. Power’ll hold.”
“Okay.”
It flickers again. Then goes out.
She gasps.
The generator kicks in three seconds later, and the lights come back, dimmer but steady.
“Told you,” I say.
She exhales. “Right. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Just listen.”
I grab the lanterns from the shelf and light two: one for the main room and one for the hallway. Candles come next. I set three on the table and spread them for even light. The cabin softens, shadows pooling in the corners.
“This is normal?” she asks.
“Up here, yeah. The grid goes out during every big storm. Generator’s the backup. Lanterns and candles are the backup to the backup.”
“You’re very prepared.”
“I’m alive.”
She blinks at that. Then nods, like it makes sense.
I check the window. Snow’s still coming down sideways. Visibility is zero. Temperature’s dropping fast, single digits at least.
“How long have you been in Lush Hollow?” she asks.
I turn. She’s watching me like she’s curious. That’s the last thing I want her to be. “Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
