That night, after Elena is asleep, I stand in the kitchen staring at the meager contents of my cupboards. A bag of pasta, half-full. Some rice. A jar of butter. Flour for bread. Three eggs. The figs from this afternoon.
I've been rationing for months, ever since my father died and his small pension disappeared. The vegetable garden helps. The chickens give us eggs. But it's not enough. It's never enough.
And now I'm feeding a grown man who needs to eat twice what Elena and I eat combined to get better.
I make a plate, pasta with butter, some bread, two figs, and carry it out to the barn. The sun has set, and the air is cool. I should have brought him a heavier blanket. The nights are getting colder.
He's awake when I enter, sitting in the same spot. He's tried to clean himself up a bit, I can see. Wiped the dried blood from his hands, tried to straighten his torn shirt.
"Here." I set the plate down near him, along with a cup of water.
"Thank you." He doesn't reach for it immediately. Just looks at me. "You should eat first."
"I already ate."
"Did you?"
I don't answer. His one good eye is too perceptive.
"Isabella, you don't have to—"
"Just eat." I turn to go, but his voice stops me.
"Let me help."
I look back. "Help how? You can barely walk."
"I can do something. Work. Whatever you need. I can't just take from you without giving anything back."
"You're injured."
"I'm getting stronger." He shifts, and I can see it's true. He's still moving carefully, still in pain, but better than two days ago. "There must be something I can do. I can’t take your food and do nothing."
I consider this. The fence post I propped up won't hold much longer. The barn door needs fixing. There's firewood to split for winter. A dozen tasks I can't manage alone.
But can I trust him? Can I let him out of this barn, let him near Elena, let him into my life any more than he already is?
"Maybe," I say finally. "When you're stronger."
He nods, accepting this. Then: "Can I... is there somewhere I can clean up? A well, or a spigot?"
I hesitate. The practical part of me knows he needs to wash. The dried blood, the dirt, the sweat of fever, it's all a recipe for infection. But letting him into the house feels like crossing a very dangerous line.
Then again, I've already crossed so many lines. What's one more?
"There's a shower," I say slowly. "In the house. My father's bathroom. I can..." I take a breath. "Tomorrow. When Elena is napping. You can come in and clean up."
His expression shifts. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. "Thank you."
"I have some of my father's clothes. They might fit you." I gesture at his ruined shirt. "Better than what you're wearing."
"When did he...?" He trails off, unsure how to ask.
"Six months ago. Heart attack." The words still hurt to say. "It was quick."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I." I move toward the door, then pause. "Lupo. Is that really your name?"
