She hasn’t told me—and I won’t force it.
But I can still watch.
I can still protect.
This is how I do it without crossing lines.
Without knocking on her door under the excuse of concern.
I sit here, drink my coffee, eat the turkey sandwich I slapped together for dinner, and tell myself this is reasonable.
Necessary.
I flip through the feeds one by one. Yard. Sawmill floor. Loading bay. Road access.
Then her cabin.
The image is grainy but clear enough. Snow blowing sideways. The light above her door glowing dimly against the white.
And then—pop!
A sharp flash of light near the generator housing.
Sparks.
Then darkness.
The feed stutters as the power drops, the camera switching to battery backup.
“Fuck.”
I’m already standing, chair scraping back hard.
Generators don’t justdiequietly.
Not in weather like this.
A sudden pop like that means a surge, a short, or a fuel-line issue.
Could be ice buildup.
Could be a bad connection.
Worst case?
Fire.
That generator feeds her cabin.
No power means no heat. No lights. No hot water.
In this storm?
She’ll freeze.
I don’t even think. Boots. Coat. Keys. All muscle memory.
I shove my feet into thick socks, sturdy boots, grab my gloves off the hook by the door, and yank my coat on so hard I nearly tear the zipper.
