The smoke stack’s not puffing.
No light in the window.
It looks so small now. So broken.
I know it wasn’t supposed to be permanent.
Just a stopover.
Temporary housing at best.
But still, it felt like mine.
It was safe. Quiet.
It was the first place I’ve ever stayed on my own. The first place that felt safe in a real long while.
And now it’s just wounded.
Thatcher says it’s not my fault.
He told me that in the truck with that steel-threaded voice of his, like he’d fight the whole mountain for me if he had to. I believe him.
Mostly.
He parks me in the office, makes sure I’m warm, set up, have everything I need while he goes to oversee the installation of the new generator Tim hauled in from town.
Apparently, there are a couple that run the mill, and the one that blew last night was the only casualty.
The lunchroom and main office are running fine.
We stopped at the lunchroom first.
He helped me stir the thick, creamy tomato soup I prepped yesterday. I pretended not to notice how he lingered at my back, warm and solid and close.
I’ve got grilled cheddar and turkey bacon sandwiches ready to press for lunch, and a peach cobbler bubbling away in the new dessert crock pot Thatcher insisted we buy when we went on this week’s Walmart run.
He even pushed the cart.
Said it was “only right” that if I was feeding his whole damn crew, I should have the tools to do it right.
And I liked it.
God help me, I like this.
The cooking. The quiet. The rhythm of feeding people who work with their hands and don’t ask for much.
I’ve even been looking over the summer schedules. Once the snow melts, and the days get longer, the shifts start earlier.
Maybe I could prep some grab-and-go breakfast? Biscuit sandwiches, or breakfast burritos? Just something warm with their coffee before the day kicks off.
But then—I hear it. My inner voice speaks up loud and clear.
You won’t be here in the summer.
The thought punches the air right out of me.
This isn’t my life.
