A rhythmic scraping from outside. Regular. Methodical.
My hand stops on the kettle handle. The sound is steady and deliberate. Someone is outside my cabin at an hour early enough that the light is still blue. My body goes through the sequence it has learned: stomach tightens, breath shallows, eyes find the nearest exit. Then the second sequence, the one I'm trying to build on top of the first: listen. Assess. The sound is regular. Unrushed. Not trying to be quiet.
I go to the window.
Two of the men from yesterday are in my driveway.
They've shed their outer layers despite the temperature, working in dark thermal base layers fitted close across their strong shoulders and backs. The bigger one, drives his shovel into a hard-packed ridge near the access road with the full weight of his body behind it. The thermal pulls taut across his back with each push, damp with effort, and I watch the flex of his shoulders and the controlled force of the motion and I am aware,with a specificity I did not invite, of the way his body moves under the fabric. Large and unhurried and certain.
I don't need to register any of that. I don't need to take notice of the breadth of his shoulders or the way his forearms look when he grips the shovel handle. I have spent the last six months learning to keep myself small and contained and invisible, and noticing a man's body while he shovels my driveway is not on the approved list.
My body disagrees. I override it.
He looks up.
He sees me. He goes still for a moment, then raises one hand. Slow. Deliberate. A careful motion, as though he's aware that fast movements are not welcome here. Then he gestures toward the front door.
I go to the door and work the armchair out of the way and open it.
He's on the porch putting his flannel shirt back on, working the last button at the collar when I step out. His fingers are sure and unhurried at his throat. I see this and I file it somewhere I don't intend to revisit.
He extends his hand. "We didn't get the chance to introduce ourselves yesterday. I'm Reid Calloway." He gestures back toward the driveway. "That's Owen. My nephew." A brief pause. "We're your neighbors."
I shake his hand because the alternative is standing here with my arms at my sides like I've forgotten what hands are for. His grip is brief and matter-of-fact.
"Maya." I pull my hand back. "What are you doing here?"
"Wanted to apologize properly. We heard you from the trail and we genuinely thought someone was in trouble." He says it in a straightforward way. "We're here to fix the door. Jace, my other nephew, went to see what he could do about your car."
The tightening across my shoulders is immediate and familiar. These men, in my space, doing things to my property that I didn't ask for. The proximity of it. The way it reorganizes the shape of my day without my permission.
"That's really not necessary," I say. "I can handle it."
Reid opens his mouth to say something, but before he can form words, the sound of an engine coming up the drive cuts what he was about to say.
We both turn. My Subaru is on a flatbed trailer behind a pickup, riding up the freshly cleared driveway with an ease it absolutely would not have managed an hour ago. The curly-haired one from yesterday is in the driver's seat. He parks, kills the engine, and gets out with a smug swagger.
He looks at me with the same expression of yesterday. Almost amused. Just this side of provoking.
"Keys," he says. "And I won't say no to coffee."
"As I was saying to Mr. Calloway," I start, "it's not necessary."
Jace turns to Reid and mouthsMr. Callowayslowly, savoring it. The amusement is entirely at my expense.
"We're not here to impose," Reid says. His voice has shifted, not harder but more definite. "But we fix what we break. It won't take long. Then we'll be out of your way."
I look at him.
He means it.
I nod.
I get the keys from inside and put them in Jace's outstretched palm and go back to the kitchen. I make coffee for four because the kettle is hot and I need something to do with my hands. Not because Jace asked for it. Definitely not.
From the kitchen window I watch Reid work. He's taken the door off its hinges already, the broken frame laid out on the porch, and he's assessing the damage with his hands before he does anything else. Running his palm along the split wood.Checking the hinge points. He works like someone who has been fixing things for a long time.
I carry three mugs outside.
