I’m waiting for him to come in.
Thatcher only stops by the office in the morning, then spends the rest of his day outside in the mill.
Every time the back door opens, my pulse jumps—ridiculous, really—but I can’t help it.
Today the temperature creeps up to thirty-five degrees, and for the first time since I arrived, I can actually feel my toes.
I’ve learned fast that frozen ground turns to mud by afternoon, and my thin canvas sneakers are one bad wash away from disintegrating completely.
I’ll need boots.
But I don’t get paid for another two weeks.
And even then, I’ll have to ask my boss if he can cash my check for me.
That thought makes my stomach twist.
At least I have a place to stay, though.
And one solid meal a day isn’t bad either.
The cabin is fine. Really.
I clean it using supplies I find under the sink—laundry detergent, disinfectant wipes, even a decent mop.
The hot plate works, and I use the kettle heat water for the instant soup cups I have for dinner almost every night. I rotate those with that shelf stable cheese spray and crackers or oatmeal packets.
It’s fine. Whatever. I can afford to lose a pound or ten.
Anyway, I’m surprised on my first afternoon when two of the guys come in—one from each crew—and drop keys onto my desk.
“Used the cabin key to wash the rags,” Mack explains, scratching his beard. “Boss says you’re handling it now.”
The other man nods once and leaves without a word.
“Yep. Thanks,” I say, releasing a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
I hadn’t even known there were other keys floating around.
I hung them on hooks just inside the cabin so when I move on—and God, I hate thinking about that—whoever needs them can grab them easily.
As far as I know, Thatcher—Mr. McCrae—is the only one with a personal copy.
Which makes sense.
He’s the boss.
It’s day three now and I feel like I’m getting the hang of it.
The back door opens, heavy and unmistakable.
He’s back.
I wait a beat. Two. Three.
Then square my shoulders and walk toward his office, heart thudding like I’m about to do something brave instead of ask a question.
“Excuse me, Mr. McCrae?” I knock lightly.
