I sit on the bench in the mudroom, my hands numb and clumsy as I struggle to pry off my boots. I finally kick the left one loose and lean back against the coats hanging on the hooks.
The window next to the door is cracked open a few inches to vent the room, and voices drift in from the porch outside.
"You have that look," Finn is saying.
"I don't have a look," Nash's voice replies, sharp and defensive.
"You do. It's the 'Hollister Doom Stare.' Dad used to get it when he ran out of whiskey. You get it when you realize you have feelings and you don't know where to file them in your little mental filing cabinet."
I freeze, one boot on, one boot off.
"My filing cabinet is organized perfectly, thank you," Nash grumbles.
"Yeah, under 'D' for Denial," Finn counters. I can hear the slap of a glove hitting a shoulder. "Go talk to her, Nash. Before she packs her bags. Mags made cinnamon rolls, so the mood is salvageable, but you have a window of about twenty minutes before the sugar crash hits."
The pause that follows is heavy and loaded. The playful tone evaporates.
"I can't talk to her," Nash says, and the raw honesty in his voice makes my chest ache. "Because if I talk to her, I'm going to ask her to stay. And she can't stay. She has a life, Finn. A career. I'm not going to be the anchor that drags her down."
"You're mixing them up, Nash," Finn says softly.
"I'm not?—"
"You are. You're looking at Aris and seeing Mom. But Mom didn't pack a bag. She didn't check out."
I hold my breath, pressing my hand against my mouth.
"She fought for every single breath just to stay with us one second longer," Finn says, fierce now. "She didn't leave us. Shewas taken from us. That was a tragedy, Nash. But this? Aris standing in there, waiting for you to say something? This is a choice. Don't make it for her just because you're scared of the ending."
Silence stretches out. I can picture Nash standing there, wrestling with ghosts I didn't know he had.
"She has a tenure review," Nash says finally. "She belongs in a university. Not here, freezing in a generator shed."
"Maybe you should let her decide where she belongs," Finn says.
Footsteps crunch on the snow as Finn walks away.
I sit there for a long moment, my breath sticking high in my chest.She didn't leave. She was taken.
Finn doesn't come back to the porch. I hear his boots crunch across the gravel toward the workshop.
Then I hear the soft thud of canvas against wood. I lean toward the cracked window and look out. He has my Pelican case slung over one shoulder and the cedar throw from the front room folded over the other. He pauses by the rocker on the porch and sets the throw on the seat, where I'll see it when I come out. Then he carries my case across the yard with the careful hand of a man who understands that whatever is inside cost three years of someone else's life.
Day one, I treated this lodge like a checkpoint and the man running it like an obstacle on a schedule. There's a cedar throw folded on the porch rocker, set out where I'll see it on my way to the plane. These people don't let a cold, worn-down stranger walk back into the weather without something warm at hand.
I press my forehead against the cold glass and let that sit.
I take a deep breath, composing my face, and push the remaining boot off. I stand up, smooth my hair, and push through the door into the warm lodge.
The heat hits me like a physical wall, dry, forced-air warmth that instantly makes my face prickle. The interior is beautiful, all polished wood and leather furniture, but it feels loud. The hum of the refrigerator, the crackle of the fire, the distant sound of a radio, it's sensory overload.
Mags pushes a plate of cinnamon rolls toward me as I reach the island. "Eat. You look like you've lost ten pounds."
"Probably," I say, picking up a roll. My hands are shaking, but not from the cold anymore. "We … we ran out of snacks."
"Nash is terrible at grocery shopping," Mags says sympathetically. "Finn is the same. They think 'food' means 'meat and coffee.'"
"Nash is actually a pretty good cook," I say, defending him automatically. "He made these venison steaks …"
