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A delivery driver stands on the porch, clipboard in hand, and next to him on the step sits a cardboard box the size of a mini-fridge.
My mouth falls open.
“Sign here,” the driver says, holding out the clipboard.
After I sign, he leaves without offering to help.
The box sits on the porch, and I try to figure out how twelve ice packs became this.
One of the crew sits in their car a few houses down. I consider asking for help. But no. I can do this on my own.
Grabbing the handles on either side, I pull. The box slides an inch, then sticks on the welcome mat. Feet planted, I lean back and heave.
It scrapes across the threshold before the cardboard catches on the door frame, and I have to lift the front end a few inches to clear it. My arms shake.
Inside, the hardwood offers less resistance, but the box is still heavy enough to leave a dark smudge on the floor as I drag it. I should care about that. I don’t.
“Bunny, what the hell is that?”
Kain calls from the couch, where he’s pushed himself to the edge, one hand braced on the cushion, the other holding his ribs.
“Stay there,” I grunt. “Don’t get up.”
He freezes, halfway to standing, before he settles back on the couch.
I drag the box through the living room, around the coffee table, and into the kitchen, where I stop, breathless, and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. When the world goes out of alignment, I straighten my glasses.
The scent of chicken soup from earlier hangs in the kitchen, clinging to the empty container on the counter. I should rinse that and move it to the trash.
But first… I tear open the box and pull out the first ice pack.
It’s enormous.
Heavy-duty plastic encases thick blue gel, the kind designed for serious injuries. Which is perfect, because Kain is seriously injured.
I open the freezer and run into my next obstacle.
Every shelf and drawer overflows.
Was it full when I pulled out the smaller ice pack earlier? It must have been, right?
Kain meal-preps. The evidence is stacked in neat containers of marinated chicken and chopped vegetables. Homemade sauces sit frozen in ice cube trays.
He keeps sliced bread in the freezer because I forget to eat it before it goes stale.
A bag of frozen peas has been in here since last winter, because peas are gross.
I hold the ice pack up to the freezer and do the math.
I can fit one. Maybe two if I rearrange everything and sacrifice the peas.
Not twelve.
My foot taps on the floor.
I need more freezer space.
There’s room in the garage. Kain keeps tools out there, and the car, which is missing now. But there’s an empty corner where a chest freezer could go.
