I look toward the ridge line, down into the valley where her shack sits in darkness.
I check the cabin window. A soft orange glow flickers from the hearth—she kept the fire going. Safe. Warm. Probably awake,wondering why the man who claimed her body yesterday is trying to freeze himself to death outside.
I turn away from the door.
I head for the shed. Bypassing the splitting maul, I grab the heavy canvas bag of tools—the real ones. Cordless drills, impact driver, a box of four-inch exterior screws, lag bolts, steel reinforcement plates. I throw a bundle of pressure-treated 4x4s onto my shoulder—leftovers from the deck repair. They weigh a ton, digging into the scar tissue on my trap. The pain grounds me.
I begin the trek down the ridge.
Drifts stand waist-deep, crusted over with ice that crunches loudly under my boots. I move like a tank, head down, momentum carrying me forward. A weapon of war repurposed for construction.
When I reach her clearing, the moon finally breaks through. Her cabin looks pathetic in the harsh light. The porch railing I fixed temporarily holds, but the rest of the structure leans. The front door is a joke—thin wood, a loose frame. A solid kick would shatter the jamb.
Scouts saw this. An easy entry point.
Rage flares, warming my blood better than whiskey.
I drop the lumber in the snow and set the tool bag on the rotting deck. No plan needed. I see structural failures like I see tactical weaknesses.
I start with the railing.
I work in silence. Prying out rotted spindles, the wood wet and spongy in my grip. It crumbles like cake. Measure by eye. Cut with the battery-powered circular saw. The motor whines, tearing through the night.
Vertical supports first. I sink long screws into the joists until the heads bury themselves in the wood. I test it with my weight, leaning my full two hundred and fifty pounds against the new post. It holds.
Good.
Next, the door.
The critical failure point. I strip the molding off the frame. Shoddy construction, gaps filled with old insulation chewed by mice. I curse softly, the sound lost to the wind.
I cut new framing lumber. Reinforce the jambs with steel plates, screwing them directly into the studs. I install a heavy-duty deadbolt from my supplies, boring the hole with precision. When I’m done, this door won’t just lock; it will hold against a battering ram.
My hands stiffen, cold seeping through my gloves. I don't stop. Patch the drafty gaps in the siding. Secure the loose shutter banging against the wall.
Mindless, rhythmic work. Measure. Cut. Drill. Drive.
With every screw, I nail down my resolve. I’m not fixing this so she can live here alone. I’m fixing it because it belongs to her, and anything of hers is under my protection. She wanted a home. She wanted to stop being disposable.
I step back, wiping sweat from my forehead. Porch straight. Railing solid. Door a fortress.
It’s not pretty. I’m a combat engineer, not a finish carpenter. Built for survival, not aesthetics. But it will stand.
The sky turns pale grey in the east. Dawn approaches.
I gather my tools, muscles trembling with fatigue. No sleep in twenty-four hours. Ankle throbbing where I slipped on a hidden rock. Hands covered in sawdust and grease.
I look at the cabin one last time. A stronghold.
I trudge back up the mountain.
The climb punishes my legs. Adrenaline fades, leaving bone-deep exhaustion. But my mind is clear for the first time since I found those dog tags in her hand.
Smoke curls aggressively from my chimney. She’s awake.
I stomp snow off my boots on the porch, shaking sawdust from my jacket. I take a breath of crisp air, steeling myself. Words aren't my strong suit. I speak in logistics and perimeter checks.
But for her, I have to try.
