“Did you flip the old breakers or the new breakers?”
Walker paused. “I flipped ... the only breakers I know about.”
“The ones in the utility closet?”
“The ones outside by the back stairs.”
Taffy shook her head. “Those don’t work.”
Walker and I looked at each other.
“You poor dears,” my mother said, reveling in the teasing. “You had to huddle together all night for warmth.”
“Quite literally,” Taffy added, nodding. “When we first walked in, you were twisted around each other like spaghetti noodles.”
I felt myself flush. How mortifying.
Walker stayed focused on mechanics. “When did we get a new junction box?”
“Years ago,” Taffy said, waving off the question. “But it looks like you survived.”
“You two looked so cute together when we found you this morning,” my mom agreed.
“But didn’t the bear wake you up?” Taffy asked.
I turned. “Wasthere a bear?”
My mom nodded. “A big one, from the looks of things.”
“How long have you been here?” Walker asked.
“Not long,” my mom said, just as Taffy said, with a wink, “Long enough.”
They gave us time to shower and dress before they really started teasing us.
But tease us they did.
We found them in the kitchen—working bizarrely, almost surreally, in tandem to separate ashes out of two large gallon freezer bags into smaller sandwich bags with a measuring cup.
Walker and I stared.
“Are those our dads?” Walker asked.
“Is that sanitary?” I wanted to know.
“It’s fine,” my mother said, as though we were being fussy.
Taffy held up a sandwich bag like they’d just packed us some snacks. “These are for you to take up to the pass.”
“To scatter,” my mom said when we kept staring.
“Just us?” I asked.
“We’re too old for that hike,” my mom said. “We’ll just sprinkle a handful or two around the yard.”
The moms were wearing matching T-shirts with columbine flowers on them. These were the group shirts they’d ordered for the trip—two for them, and two for us.
Like we were a team.
