Somewhere beyond the barn, a pickup engine idled, then throttled down. I could just make out the shape of Burke working the east fence, a neon hat bobbing up and down as he paced the boundary line, occasionally stopping to lean into the wind and spit a word or two at his walkie.
The kitchen still smelled like breakfast. Hooper made eggs and toast every morning, a ritual he claimed built morale even when the eggs were more rubber than protein. The crusts from my plate were still in the sink, flecked with crumbs and a smear of the off-brand jam he’d bought in bulk.
I took it all in from the window, arms tightening unconsciously around Emilio as I counted the familiar signposts of the yard: the rusted propane tank, the dented mailbox, the path of tramped snow that led from the porch to the barn and would, in a few hours, be refilled by the next round of wind.
Every two or three minutes, my eyes tracked to the county road. There was nothing out there but white, the fence line fading into the blank, but the habit was so deep in my body that I couldn’t stop even when I caught myself.
I ran the calculation twice before nine—if I had to leave, how far could I get on what was left in my wallet, what would I carry, how long could I keep Emilio warm if the car broke down in the middle of nowhere.
The answer was never good, but it was always the same.
I told myself to knock it off. The crisis was over. The house was safe. The enemy had retreated to Madison and her lawyerly den of paper cuts and bloodless threats. There was no reason to stand guard at the window like a bad dog waiting for the boot to fall.
Emilio shifted against my hip, let out a small, asthmatic sigh, and pressed his forehead into my collarbone. The heat of him, the weight of his skull, was enough to override the last flicker of panic in my chest.
I turned away from the window and settled him on the breakfast bar, wedging him upright between a stack of kitchen towels and a three-pound bag of rice. I kept one hand on his back while I hunted for a clean bib—Hooper had started hoarding them after Emilio’s first formula explosion, and there was now a full drawer of them, every color, but all the same shape and size.
I got a bib on him, more out of principle than necessity, then pulled up a stool and surveyed the wreckage of the kitchen.
The table was a disaster. Plates, baby bottles, Hooper’s tools, my notebook, the salt shaker in two separate pieces because Emilio had discovered gravity the day before.
I cleared a space with my elbow, stacked the plates, and opened the notebook to a fresh page.
I hadn’t meant to start a list, but the pen in my hand made the decision for me. I started writing down everything I could remember that needed doing around the ranch, in the house, in the endless small world that had contracted to these six rooms and the yard outside.
— Clean gutters (spring)
— Fix screen on porch window
— Organize baby bottles by size, not color
— See if Rawley wants more bread
— Check the generator, new spark plugs
The list got longer. I added things I knew how to do, things I might be able to learn, things I thought would make Hooper’s life easier, and, just to keep myself honest, a couple of things that would be for no one but me.
By the time I got to the end of the first page, Emilio had started a one-sided conversation with the bib. He pawed at it, found the velcro, and spent five minutes peeling it loose, only to demand that I put it back on when he succeeded. I did, twice, and he beamed like it was the best joke in the world.
The wind picked up outside, rattling the window panes and making the house flex around the nails. I listened for the sound of boots on the porch—Hooper’s, or maybe one of the others—but all I got was the baby’s half-laugh and the slow tick of the woodstove cycling on.
I looked at the list again, at my cramped handwriting, and felt a twist in my gut I couldn’t name. There was something transactional about it, as if I was trying to buy my keep witha ledger of future usefulness, as if I expected someone to come around and audit the column before I was allowed to stay.
I put the pen down and picked up Emilio, just to hold him for a minute. He smelled like baby powder and rubber duck and the faint, animal sweetness that stuck to the back of his neck no matter how many baths he got.
I walked him around the living room, slow laps, the way Hooper did after dinner. The floor creaked in the same places, the boards old and uneven, but the sound was comforting, a kind of rhythm that proved the house was still alive.
The clock above the stove said 10:22. I wondered how long Hooper would be out in the barn before he came back to thaw. I wondered if I should start coffee, or wait and see if he came in smelling like gasoline and burned oil.
I wondered if I would ever stop wondering when the next shoe would drop, or if this was just the new normal, a life measured in lists and window checks and the tight, persistent ache of waiting.
I set Emilio down on his play mat and watched him go after a stuffed rabbit with the intensity of someone chasing their own future. He caught it, shook it, then brought it to his mouth and bit down, the fabric going damp in under a second.
I sat on the floor beside him and let the rest of the world fade.
The door opened a half hour later, a gust of cold rolling in with the unmistakable smell of machine oil. Hooper banged the snow off his boots, then kicked them off on the mat, leaving a trail of melted dots across the tile. He hung his jacket on the hook by the door, rolled his shoulders, and took a quick look around the room before making a beeline for the coffee pot.
He poured himself a mug, black, and then sat at the kitchen table, elbows planted on either side of my open notebook. He picked up the list and read it without comment, eyes scanningthe page in a way that made me think he was tallying the items in his head, running a silent risk assessment.
