My expression doesn’t change. This isn’t about temperature regulation. This is about dignity. About ritual. About respect for established protocols.
“He’s not budging,” Charlie observes. “Oxford is very particular.”
“I can see that,” Melody mutters. She tilts her head, studying me. “Do you want my scarf? Is that it?”
I shift my gaze meaningfully to the red woolen accessory around her neck. It’s not one of Granny’s hand-knitted creations, but it appears adequate, with good color saturation, an appropriate length, and sufficient width for proper draping.
“Seriously?” Melody asks. “You want my scarf?”
I maintain steady eye contact. Sometimes, the most effective therapeutic technique is simply holding space for a client to reach their own conclusions.
“Fine,” she says after a moment, unwinding the red wool from her neck. “But if I get cold, we’re coming back.”
An acceptable compromise.
She approaches cautiously, scarf extended. “Is it okay if I put this on you?”
I lower my head slightly.
Her technique is amateur at best. She drapes the scarf around my neck with excessive caution, as if I might suddenly object. The tension is uneven. The ends are asymmetrical. She clearly lacks Granny May’s experienced touch.
But she’s trying, which I find unexpectedly… affecting.
“There,” she says, stepping back to examine her handiwork. “How’s that?”
Substandard, but functional.
I’ll allow it.
I straighten my neck, feeling the wool settle against my fur. The scarf carries her scent, different from Granny May’s lavender and baking bread, but not unpleasant.
“Looking good, Oxford,” Charlie says, and I detect genuine appreciation in her tone. “Very dashing.”
I acknowledge the compliment with a dignified blink.
“So now we can go for a walk?” Melody asks.
I take a step forward, indicating my readiness.
“Okay then,” she smiles, turning toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“Have fun,” Charlie calls after us. “Don’t forget to twerk in the snow, Melody.”
Melody groans, and Charlie laughs.
9
Gabe
The ax bites into pine with a satisfying thunk.
Four hours in, and my hands have settled into the rhythm—swing, strike, pull back, repeat. My flannel sticks to my back with sweat despite the cold, a damp reminder that real work generates heat.
This is honest work. Simple.
Unlike the numbers game I play in the city, where everything’s hidden behind politeness and corporate jargon.
Here, you either cut the tree or you don’t.
