Page 33

Lila

By the third day of the storm, I’ve learned four things about my husband.

He cheats at cards.

He drinks whiskey like water.

He can cook approximately three meals, all involving wild game.

And watching Dane Miller chop wood should qualify as pornography.

“Again.”

I look down at the ax in my hands.

“No.”

“You wanted to learn.”

“I have learned.”

“You missed.”

“I hit the wood.”

“You grazed the wood.”

“Still counts.”

“It doesn’t.”

Snow falls steadily around us, piling against the porch and covering the road beneath almost two feet of white. We haven’t been able to leave since yesterday morning.

Dane doesn’t seem concerned.

I’m beginning to suspect Dane could survive the apocalypse with nothing but a pocketknife and his bad attitude.

He takes the ax from me. “Watch.”

“I’ve been watching.”

His eyes meet mine.

I realize my mistake immediately.

“Have you?”

“Your technique.”

“Sure.”

He turns toward the chopping block.

Unfortunately, his technique involves planting his boots in the snow, lifting the ax over one broad shoulder, and bringing it down hard enough to split the log cleanly in half.

His thermal stretches across his back.

I swallow.