She eats. Slow at first. Then faster, like her body finally clocked that fuel had arrived and decided not to waste the window. I don't look at her while she does it. I look at my own bowl, at the dark outside the window, at the coffee can on the counter that needs replacing.
The quiet isn't bad.
Neither of us tries to fill it.
When her bowl's half empty, she breaks a saltine in half. Sets one piece on the edge of her plate like she's saving it for later.
"Your whole cabin is tidy."
"Habit."
"Military?"
"Yeah."
"My dad was Navy. Before I was born. He still folds towels like a psychopath."
I huff. "Sounds like a man who knows what he's about."
"He'd like you."
She says it without thinking. I watch her hear it a second after it's out. Watch her cheeks get the faintest color in them. She takes a drink of water to cover it.
I let her have the cover.
"You didn't eat at the main house tonight," she says.
"No."
"Do you normally?"
"Used to. Gabe's the big cook now. Always makes a plate for me."
"Why'd you stop?"
Because Mable used to be at that table, and a year's not long enough to walk back in and sit in a kitchen where a woman like that used to be.
I don't say that.
"Got busier."
She nods like she knows I'm lying and isn't going to push.
We eat.
Somewhere outside, a barn owl calls. Low and long. Anna's fork pauses. She tilts her head toward the window.
"Is that an owl?"
"Yep."
"I've never heard one in real life before."
"City girl."
"Connecticut, originally. Then Portland."
"Same difference from where I'm sitting."
