My jaw tightens. Chief's been filling the dad-shaped hole in my life since I was fourteen, since that structure fire took everything except Mom's fierce determination to keep going. Which means his suggestions carry weight I can't just dismiss.
"She screamed at a moose yesterday, Chief. Pretty sure she can figure out how to be a tourist without my help."
Now he looks up, and that expression—half amused, half disappointed—is pure tactical dad energy. "Your father would've helped. Man never met a stranger he wouldn't assist."
Low blow. Accurate, but low.
"Dad also didn't have NHL scouts watching his every move."
"No," Chief agrees, setting down the Halligan bar with deliberate care. "He just had a son he was raising to be a good man, first. Hockey player second."
The words land exactly where he aimed them. In that soft spot where grief lives, where Dad's voice still echoes sometimes when I'm alone on the ice:Play with heart, son, but live with purpose.
"I'll check on her." The resignation in my voice makes Chief smile, because he knows he's won this round.
"Good man." He claps my shoulder, and for a second, I'm fourteen again, scared and angry and desperate for someone to tell me it'll be okay. "Also, Dotty says the girl's single. Recently. Dramatically, apparently."
"Chief—"
"Just sharing information." But there's a glint in his eye that suggests the whole town's probably placing bets on how long before I crack and actually have a conversation with her.
I'm splitting wood behind my cabin, letting the repetitive motion quiet my mind. The rhythm of it—position, swing, crack—creates a meditation that hockey can't quite match. No performance here. Just me, the axe, the setting sun, and wood that needs splitting before the next cold snap.
Then I hear it. Creative swearing that would make a fisherman blush, followed by the distinct sound of metal meeting metal in a way that suggests violence rather than repair.
"—absolute piece of garbage masquerading as a heating system! How is this even legal? This is America! We have technology!"
I set down the axe. Look at my cabin, warm and glowing with firelight. Look at hers, lit only by the blue glow of what has to be a phone flashlight moving frantically past the windows.
Not my problem.
More clanging. Something that sounds suspiciously like a foot kicking metal.
Really not my problem.
"Oh my God, I'm going to die here and they'll find me frozen like Jack in Titanic except without the romance or the good soundtrack!"
It's minus twenty tonight. Without heat, that tilted cabin becomes a death trap by morning.
Fuck.
I grab my jacket and head over, each step heavier with the weight of getting involved. Her door's unlocked—of course it is, city girl probably doesn't realize we have crime here too—and I knock hard enough to be heard over her ongoing battle with the stove.
"It's open! If you're here to murder me, please make it quick because I'm about to freeze to death anyway!"
I push inside and immediately understand the problem. She's crouched in front of the wood stove as if it betrayed her,wearing fingerless gloves and what appears to be every sweater she owns layered for warmth. Her hair's piled on her head in a messy bun held by what might be a pencil. Or a chopstick. Scattered around her: kindling, newspaper, three different lighters, and her phone propped up with the flashlight on.
She looks up, and for a second we stand frozen. Her face cycles through surprise, embarrassment, and something that might be relief before settling on defiance.
"I know what you're thinking," she says, chin lifting. "City girl can't even start a fire. Go ahead, get your I-told-you-so out of your system."
Summer people. I kneel beside the stove and check the damper. Closed. Of course.
"Excuse me, I'm from Anchorage. I know about cold."
"Anchorage has central heating."
"So does civilization!"
