“I’m more worried about C-347, though,” Gideon goes on, his thumb still moving, his hand warm through my wool sock. There’s a sliver of his pinkie that’s cool against the skin of my leg, and it’s taking up more of my attention than it should.
“Is that one a crustacean?”
Gideon shoots me another weird look, which is probably fair, so I put on my bestinnocently curiousface. “C is forcanid,” he says. “It’s a fox who was shot in the hind leg and had to have it amputated.”
A tripod fox. Oh mygod.
“Reid calls him Fluffy,” Gideon admits, and I think he’s trying to sound annoyed but his voice has gone all soft and warm, talking about his little brother and the wounded animals he takes care of, thoughtlessly holding onto my ankle in this sure, calm way, like I need to be settled and he’s the one to do it.
“Are there pictures?” I ask, and Gideon rolls his eyes.
“Andi,” he says, all patient and offended-sounding as he pulls his phone out with his other hand. “Ofcoursethere are pictures.”
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
GIDEON
For some reason,I let Andi win the argument the next day over whether I can godo my jobor not. I’m up here during the winter for the sole purpose of conducting a survey on the nesting habits of the ruffed grouse, and so far I’ve surveyed preciselyoneof several probable nesting areas.
I tell her that, obviously, and point out that my ankle feelsmuchbetter and it’s wrapped up properly and also I’ll be very careful, but she just folds her arms and blocks my way to the front door, as if I could not a) use the back door in the kitchen, or b) simply lift her up and move her, something I’ve already proven I can do.
In any case, I’m attempting to compile data on a tablet—a pain in the ass, but the laptop takes way too much power to bother bringing to the cabin—when she bursts through the kitchen door, a tiny flurry of snow swirling through at her feet.
“Did you know there’s a sled?” she asks, all breathless, still in the doorway, holding up a plastic sled just over the threshold so it’s technically outside.
“Close the door, you’re letting snow in,” I tell her.
“It looks pretty nice, actually,” she goes on, turning back to the sled she’s still holding up, her braid sliding across her back, her cheeks and nose faintly pink from the cold, her fuchsia hat dotted with melting snow.
“It’s a Wal-Mart plastic sled.”
“Yeah, but it’s theexpensiveWal-Mart plastic sled,” she says, enthusiasm undampened. “You know, they always have the super-cheap ones out front in the bin for ten bucks, and those are the ones that crack if you look at them funny, but if you go to the winter outdoors section in the back you can get a nicer one for thirty dollars? This is athirty-dollarWal-Mart sled.”
“What are you, a cat? Come in or go—”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, lowering the sled to the porch andfinallystepping inside so she can close the door. “We’re not paying to heat the outdoors, stop letting the outside in, what was I, raised in a barn?”
“I didn’t say any of those things.”
“You didn’t have to,” she says, bending to take her boots off, but she’s smiling at me like it’s a joke and I’m in on it, so—I guess it is. “There’s some wild stuff in that shed.”
“Why were you in the shed?” I ask. “You should be careful, there are probably black widows—”
“It’s December, they’re all dead,” she points out, taking off her hat and coat and draping them over a kitchen chair, which isn’t where they go. Underneath she’s got my blue sweater on, and she pushes the too-long sleeves up her arms like it’s already a habit.
It’s a couple sizes too big for her, chunky and formless, but it looks good anyway. She’s all flushed and cozy and warm, and wearing my sweater like it belongs to her, and I’m somewhat alarmed to discover I don’t hate it. The opposite, actually, which is evenmorealarming.
“Could be snakes,” I say, instead of all that.
“They don’t hibernate?”
“They’d stop hibernating right quick if you dropped a shovel on one.”
“I can outrun a frozen snake,” she says, opening the fridge, as if that’s even the issue here. “I’m gonna make tomato soup and grilled cheese for lunch, you in?”
“I can make it,” I say without thinking.
“Youcan sit your ass down at that table and wait to be served,” she says, pulling the ingredients out. “Keep playingStardew Valley.”
