Silence.
Immediate. Total.
Her expression freezes—not angry now. Stunned. Like she wasn’t expecting that particular line from the grumpy caveman neighbor.
I feel it then. That slight shift in the air when a comment lands harder than intended.
I straighten, stretch my back carefully, and turn away to drag another branch clear. No apology. No explanation. If I open my mouth again, something worse might come out.
“You’re…” she starts, then trails off.
I don’t respond.
She steps closer instead.
Snow crunches. Once. Twice.
My shoulder tightens. My grip on the log goes rigid.
Then she stops.
“Hey,” she says, softer now. “You’re limping.”
I freeze.
The mountain goes quiet again, like it’s listening.
“It’s nothing,” I say too fast.
She doesn’t buy it. I can tell without looking.
“Your leg,” she continues, careful, like she’s approaching a skittish animal. “And your shoulder. Yesterday, when that truck backfired down the road—you flinched.”
I turn then, slow and deliberate.
“Don’t,” I warn.
Her eyes lift to mine. No fear. No backing down. Just… concern. Curious, gentle concern that has no business being aimed at me.
“I’m not judging,” she says. “I’m asking.”
“Don’t,” I repeat, firmer.
She swallows. For half a second, I think she’ll retreat. Crack a joke. Change the subject like most people do when they realize they’ve stepped too close to something sharp.
Instead, she tilts her head.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “Then I’ll ask this.”
I wait.
“Why do you act like you’re mad at the world,” she continues, “when it looks an awful lot like the world already hit you first?”
That one lands.
Hard.
My jaw locks. The saw feels too heavy in my hand. My pulse picks up, sharp and insistent, like it’s warning me to move or strike or run—anything but stand here and let her look at me like that.
