So I don’t sit.
I sharpen the saw chain, then stack the wood I didn’t deliver. I heat leftover chili and eat it standing at the counter because sitting down means my leg stiffens, and getting back up is a negotiation I’d rather skip.
By the time the light turns amber through the west-facing windows, the pain has dulled to its usual background hum. Not gone. Never gone. Just quiet enough to carry.
I sit on the porch with Chief beside me. The valley is turning purple below the ridge, and the peaks above the tree line are still holding the last of the sun. Somewhere down there, Iron Peak is settling in for the evening. Lights coming on. Doors closing. People going home to people.
I think about red hair and I kill the thought.
I think about soft hands holding a pen and I kill that one too.
Chief puts his head on my boot. A long exhale, his ribs settling. Done for the day.
“You’re the only good thing about this town,” I tell him. My voice sounds rough. Unused. It’s been hours since I’ve spoken to anyone.
Chief lifts his head. Looks at me. Then turns and looks down the mountain toward town.
In the clinic's direction.
His ears come forward. Steady and certain, as if he heard something I didn’t.
I look away.
“Don’t start.”
Chief sets his chin back on my boot and closes his eyes, and I sit on the porch in the fading light and pretend that the quiet is still enough.
Chapter 3
Bianca
Dr. Theo is halfway through a story about a hiker who tried to set his own broken finger with duct tape and a popsicle stick when Nora breezes through the clinic door with a basket of muffins and a smile that means she’s already decided something.
I’ve known Nora Bell for eleven days. That’s long enough to recognize the smile.
“Theo,” she says, setting the basket on the counter. “Your woodpile is pathetic.”
Dr. Theo doesn’t look up from his chart. “My woodpile is fine.”
“It’s three logs and a prayer. You’re going to freeze some poor patient to death in here. I can see my breath.”
“You cannot see your breath.”
“I’m being illustrative.” She waves a hand. “I’ve already asked Rhett to bring a load down. He’ll be by this afternoon.”
Something kicks behind my sternum. A small, stupid jolt I have no business feeling.
Dr. Theo looks up. He glances at Nora, then at me, then back at Nora with the slow, measured expression of a man who has known this woman for a very long time and trusts none of what she’s doing.
“My back can’t handle stacking wood anymore,” Nora continues, smoothing the napkin around the muffins. “And yours shouldn’t. So Bianca, sweetheart, would you mind showing him where Theo keeps the woodpile out back? He’ll do the heavy lifting. You just need to point.”
“I can—sure. Of course.”
My voice comes out too fast. I press my lips together and busy myself straightening a stack of intake forms that don’t need straightening.
Nora beams. Dr. Theo sighs the sigh of a man who has seen this play before and knows better than to get in the way.
“Muffins are blueberry,” Nora says to no one in particular, and leaves.
