Ruby snorts into her coffee. "Tall carpentry. Listen to you."
"What?"
"You built a two-story workshop with a functional water wheel and you call a twenty-foot beacon tower 'tall carpentry.'"
"Itistall carpentry."
"He's very humble," Ruby says to Devin, deadpan. "It's his most attractive quality."
The corner of my mouth twitches.
"We'll need materials," I continue. "Strong timber for the frame, sheet metal for the beacon housing, solar panels if you can source them."
"Old Pines can contribute," Devin says. "We've been stockpiling salvage. And I can get volunteers to help with construction."
That stops me. "Volunteers."
"People want to help, Mayson. You've been supplying lumber to the settlements for years. Let them return the favor."
The thought of multiple people here, tramping through my sanctuary, bringing noise and chaos and mess—my chest tightens like a vise. But Ruby's thumb strokes across my knuckles, and I remember her words from months ago. About really living instead of just surviving.
"Okay," I say. "But we do it right. Proper foundation, structural integrity. I'm not putting my name on sloppy work."
"Wouldn't expect anything less."
Thankfully, the first signs of spring begin to show just as help comes from Old Pines. Six volunteers who actually listen when I explain what needs doing. Ruby coordinates supplies andschedules while I oversee the build, making sure every joint is solid, every angle true.
It's strange, having people here. But also... not terrible. They respect the space, pull their weight, and a few even have useful skills. One guy worked construction before the outbreak and knows welding. Another has electrical experience and handles the solar panel installation.
We build the defenses first. Motion sensors along the three main approaches, trip-wire alarms that'll wake the dead, and a series of barriers designed to funnel zombies away from the cabin and toward clear kill zones. It's not perfect, but it's better than just lighting a beacon and hoping for the best.
Ruby thrives on it. She's in her element organizing people, solving problems, making sure everyone's fed and housed. Watching her work, I see what she must have been like in her old life—competent, confident, making the impossible seem easy.
"You're staring again," she says, catching me watching her explain the supply rotation to someone.
"You're good at this."
"I had a life before the apocalypse, you know." But she's smiling. "Ran marketing campaigns, managed teams, coordinated events. This is just... smaller scale."
"Lucky me you're using those skills here instead of somewhere else."
"Luck has nothing to do with it. I chose here. I choose you."
Every time she says something like that, my chest does this stupid tight thing that I'm pretty sure means I'm stupidly in love with her.
The tower goes up in five days. Twenty-two feet of sturdy timber frame with a rotating beacon at the top—solar powered, bright enough to cut through snow, with a backup battery for extended storms. We mount weatherproof signs at groundlevel pointing to Old Pines, include a small lean-to shelter for travelers who need to wait out bad weather.
Ruby adds a radio relay, extending our broadcast range and linking into the regional network. "So people can call for help if they need it," she explains. "Or just know they're not alone."
On the sixth day, we test the system.
The sun's setting when Devin flips the switch. The beacon blazes to life, cutting a bright swath through the gathering dusk, rotating slowly to mark the location from every direction. It's visible for miles, a deliberate announcement that someone's here, that help exists.
Ruby's already on the radio, checking in with the network. "Mountain Station, this is... uh, Clarke's Beacon. Do you copy?"
A woman's voice comes through clear and warm. "Copy, Clarke's Beacon. This is Goldfinch at Mountain Station. We see your light from here—looks good. Really good."
"Thanks, Goldfinch. Just testing the system."
