The words are out before I fully process the image that comes with them: Ally pressed against my side, wrapped in a blanket, her head on my shoulder, shared breath in cold air.
Nope. No. Absolutely not.
I shove my arms into my jacket a little too hard. “You stay here. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, assume the generator ate me.”
She doesn’t laugh. Not properly. Her fingers tighten around the mug. “You…”
“I’ll be careful,” I say, more gently. “I’ve done this before.”
She studies my face like she’s cataloging every line. “I don’t like it,” she says finally.
“I know.”
It does something to me, having her admit that. That she doesn’t like the idea of me out in the cold, fighting with an ancient machine. I’ll use that knowledge as a source of inner warmth while I’m freezing my ass off out there.
“I won’t be long,” I promise.
She nods, once. “Fine. But if you’re not back in twenty-one minutes, I’m forming a search party of one.”
“Bossy,” I say, trying to make it light.
She lifts her chin. “Hey, I gave you an extra minute of leeway. And you love my bossy side.”
I step out into the cold before I can say anything stupid in response.
***
The world outside is white and muffled, the kind of cold that goes straight for the edges of your ears and fingers like it has it in for you. The snow’s piled higher since last night, swallowing the ruts my boots made before.
The generator crouches behind the shed, half-buried like a sulking animal. “Morning, sweetheart,” I mutter, trudging toward it with the tool box. “You really know how to make a guy work for your affection.”
The casing is encrusted with ice, and my gloves stick slightly when I touch it. I swear under my breath and pry open the panel, trying not to think about frostbite.
Or the feeling of Ally’s eyes on my back from behind the kitchen window.
“OK,” I tell the mess of pipes and wires inside. “What’s your problem?”
I lose track of time in the familiar frustration. The cold continues to bite hard, but at least the wind has died down enough that I’m not being sandblasted. I check the fuel, the starter, the plugs.It takes fifteen minutes to find the culprit: a cracked fuel line, brittle from years and weather.
“Got you,” I say, with grim satisfaction. “You sneaky bastard.”
Replacing it isn’t hard. I’ve watched Mac’s handyman do it before, and I’ve got enough mechanical literacy not to blow us up. I strip the damaged section, fit a new length from the spare coil hanging in the shed, and clamp it off. By the time I’m tightening the last joint, my fingers are numb even in the gloves, and my nose stopped existing somewhere around minute ten. I stand up, stretch my back, and give the casing a fond whack.
“All right,” I say through chattering teeth. “Moment of truth.”
I prime the line, hit the starter. Nothing.
Before I can summon up some Ally-style expressive profanity, there’s a cough. A sputter. And a full-throated, glorious roar as the generator shudders back to life. The vibrations travel up through my boots.
“Yes,” I exhale. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
I let it run for a minute, listening for anything off. It’s still not exactly purring, but it’s alive. I close the panel, clamp it shut, and start walking back toward the cabin.
Which is where everything goes wrong.
The path that was just snow last night is now a treacherous layer cake: snow over ice over packed sleet. My boot hits a patch at the wrong angle, and my foot slides out from under me. For a split second, I think I can catch myself.
I can’t.
