I nod and step back, putting space between us again.
Kinsley moves to the table and sits, opening her book but not really looking at it. She's watching Wendy instead, stealing glances when she thinks I'm not paying attention.
Wendy eats slowly, methodically, and the color starts coming back into her face. The shaking has stopped entirely now.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, and watch her without meaning to.
"How long do storms like this usually last?" Wendy asks, glancing toward the window. The glass is fogged over, snow piling against the panes.
"Depends," I say. "Could be hours. Could be a day or more."
She nods, taking it in without panic. "I left my car at the trailhead. My phone's in it."
"You won't be getting back to it tonight."
"I figured." She takes another bite of stew, chews thoughtfully. "I'm sorry for the trouble."
"It's not trouble."
She looks at me, searching my face like she's trying to decide if I mean it.
I do.
"You can take the couch," I add. "Kinsley and I will stay in our rooms. Storm should pass by morning, hopefully. I'll walk you back to your car when it's safe."
"Thank you," she says again, and this time her voice is steadier.
Kinsley looks up from her book. "Do you want to see my room?"
The question surprises me. Kinsley doesn't invite people into her space. Ever.
Wendy smiles. "I'd love to."
Kinsley hops down from the table and gestures for Wendy to follow. Wendy sets the bowl aside, stands carefully, and follows Kinsley toward the back of the cabin.
I watch them go.
Chapter 3 – Wendy
Kinsley's room is small and tidy, with a narrow bed pushed against one wall and a wooden desk beneath the window. Shelves line the opposite wall, stacked with books, jars of dried herbs, small boxes labeled in delicate handwriting, and a collection of rocks.
She moves to the desk and pulls out a chair, gesturing for me to sit.
I lower myself, my legs still a little unsteady, and she climbs onto the bed, crossing her legs beneath her.
"Dad makes me do lessons every day," she says, tracing a finger along the edge of a notebook. "Even on Sundays."
"Do you like them?" I ask.
She shrugs. "Some of them. I like reading. And science. Math is hard."
"Math can be tricky," I agree. "What are you working on right now?"
She slides off the bed and retrieves a workbook from the desk, flipping it open to a page covered in long division problems. Half are completed, the others left blank.
I lean closer, scanning the work. I can see where she's gotten stuck—carrying numbers incorrectly, losing track of remainders.
"Can I show you something?" I ask.
