These were driving boots—they had good traction but no ties. He really enjoyed the way they felt on his feet and had been tempted to wear them more often even when he wasn’t in his Secret Saint getup.
No sooner had he thought that than a figure came from out of the blue. He saw it a second before it ran right into him and wood scattered everywhere.
“Umph!” a voice said, and his voice echoed that as he tripped on a piece of wood that had fallen and landed on his butt, his hands behind him, facing the figure who was also on the ground—the one that had knocked him down.
“I’m sorry,” a quiet voice came out of the dark. It was low, but…he couldn’t quite tell if it was a man or a woman.
“No. It was my fault. I was thinking about something and wasn’t paying attention,” he said.
The figure moved, starting to pick up the firewood.
It was dawning on him…was this person also delivering firewood for the Johnson family?
He didn’t recognize the voice, but he wanted to see if he could get them to talk so that maybe he could. On that note, he started gathering up some of the wood around him.
“Excuse me,” he said, reaching across the person, just hoping that they would speak.
“No. Excuse me,” the person said, and then he realized they were reaching for the same piece of firewood, picking it up together, each of them holding onto an end as they both tried to look into each other’s eyes.
But he couldn’t see anything. The person had a cape or cloak on with a deep hood that completely covered their face. They were wearing gloves, so he couldn’t see anything about their hands, other than they were smaller than his, but were they the size of a woman’s hands? Or just a man who was smaller?
He couldn’t tell whether the body was thin or fat or something in between. The cloak hid everything.
“I’m sorry,” the voice said again, and this time, it sounded like a little bit of humor laced the words.
He could see something funny in this. It was kind of odd that the two of them were delivering firewood, had run into each other, and now they were reaching for the same piece.
“No. I apologize,” he said, making sure to mask his voice as it seemed like the other person was. He hardly thought that someone would wonder whether he was a man or a woman, but he whispered, trying to make it less obvious.
Who could it be? He ran through all the people that he knew in town. As they stood, with the other person letting go of the firewood, allowing him to take it, he realized they were much smaller than he was.
A woman? Or just a short man?
“Please don’t tell anyone you saw me,” the other person said.
“I won’t if you won’t,” Roland said.
The person continued to the woodpile, and he stacked his one piece and then waited.
Without saying anything, the person turned, and they walked back to the back of the house together. Through the darkness, through the yard, slowly and silently. He was very aware of the person beside him, but they didn’t talk.
He realized that the person might not realize that he was bringing firewood too.
Should he pretend to not be? Or should he go to his truck and grab an armful, and let them know that he was in on this too?
“It seems like we both have the same idea,” he finally said, once they were past the Johnsons’ house.
“You’re delivering firewood too?” the careful reply came.
“Yeah. I heard they needed it.”
“Same.”
There was quiet for a moment.
“If I get done first, I’ll help you with yours.”
“Cool,” came the cautious reply. He realized that maybe whoever it was wouldn’t want him to see their vehicle—maybe he would recognize it.
