Chapter 3 – Wendy
Kinsley's room is small and tidy, with a narrow bed pushed against one wall and a wooden desk beneath the window. Shelves line the opposite wall, stacked with books, jars of dried herbs, small boxes labeled in delicate handwriting, and a collection of rocks.
She moves to the desk and pulls out a chair, gesturing for me to sit.
I lower myself, my legs still a little unsteady, and she climbs onto the bed, crossing her legs beneath her.
"Dad makes me do lessons every day," she says, tracing a finger along the edge of a notebook. "Even on Sundays."
"Do you like them?" I ask.
She shrugs. "Some of them. I like reading. And science. Math is hard."
"Math can be tricky," I agree. "What are you working on right now?"
She slides off the bed and retrieves a workbook from the desk, flipping it open to a page covered in long division problems. Half are completed, the others left blank.
I lean closer, scanning the work. I can see where she's gotten stuck—carrying numbers incorrectly, losing track of remainders.
"Can I show you something?" I ask.
She nods, handing me a pencil.
I work through one of the problems slowly, talking through each step, keeping my voice soft and steady. She watches closely, her dark eyes intent, and when I finish, she takes the pencil back and tries the next one on her own.
She gets it right.
"See?" I say, smiling. "You've got it."
A small smile tugs at her mouth, shy but pleased. She works through two more problems, glancing at me occasionally for confirmation, and each time I nod encouragingly.
"You're good at teaching," she says quietly.
"I used to do it a lot."
"Why did you stop?"
The question is innocent, but it lands heavier than I expect. I hesitate, choosing my words mindfully.
"I got tired," I say finally. "It's hard work, and I needed a break."
She nods like she understands, though I'm not sure she does. She must be about ten, what does she know about feeling like you're pouring everything into something that never fills back up?
She turns back to her workbook and keeps solving problems.
I watch her for a moment, noticing the way her shoulders relax, the way her pencil moves more confidently across the page. She's smart, there’s something about her that tells me she’s used to doing most things on her own.
I know that feeling.
After a while, she closes the workbook and looks at me. "Do you want to see my collection?"
"Your collection?"
She gestures toward the shelves. "Rocks and plants. Dad helps me find them."
"I'd love to see."
She hops off the bed and moves to the shelves, pulling down a small wooden box. She sets it on the desk and opens the lid, revealing rows of stones—smooth river rocks, jagged quartz, pieces of shale, a chunk of something dark and glittering.
"This one's my favorite," she says, holding up a piece of rose quartz, pale pink and translucent. "My dad gave it to me."
"It's beautiful," I say, and I mean it.
She shows me the others one by one, naming each type, explaining where she found them. Her voice is soft but animated, her hands gentle as she lifts each stone and sets it back in place.
I listen, asking questions when it feels right, and she answers eagerly, her initial shyness melting away.
When she finishes, she closes the box and looks at me with an expression that's hard to read, something between hope and uncertainty.
"Do you think Dad will let you stay for a while?" she asks.
The question catches me off-guard. "I—I don't know. The storm has to pass first."
"But after?"
I don't know how to answer that. I don't even know what I want the answer to be.
"We'll see," I say gently.
She nods, accepting that, and slides the box back onto the shelf.
Behind us, I hear his voice, low and steady. "Kinsley. Time to wash up for dinner."
She glances at me, then back toward the door. "Okay."
I stand and follow her out into the main room.
The fire has been stoked, flames leaping higher now, and the cabin is warm enough that I can feel sweat prickling along my hairline. My coat is draped over the back of a chair, and my boots are lined up neatly by the door.
Ezra is at the stove, ladling stew into bowls. He glances at me briefly, his expression unreadable, then sets the bowls on the table.
Kinsley moves to a basin near the counter and washes her hands, drying them on a towel before sitting at the table. I do the same, the water cold enough to sting, and take the seat across from her.
He sits at the head of the table, his chair creaking under his weight. He's so large that the space feels smaller with him in it, like the walls have shifted inward.
He slides one of the bowls toward me, along with a spoon and a thick slice of bread.
“Figured you could use another round,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes.
"Thank you," I say.
Ezra nods and picks up his own spoon.
We eat in silence at first, the only sounds the clink of utensils against ceramic and the crackle of the fire.
The stew is rich and hearty, full of root vegetables and chunks of tender meat. The bread is dense and slightly sweet, and I tear off pieces, dipping them into the broth.
It's the best thing I've eaten in weeks.
Kinsley finishes first, setting her spoon down with a soft clink. "May I be excused?"
He glances at her bowl, then nods. "Go ahead."
She carries her bowl to the counter, then disappears back into her room.
I take another bite of stew, trying not to stare at him across the table. But it's hard not to notice him, the way his hands dwarf the spoon, or the way his shoulders fill the space.
"She's a great kid," I say finally, breaking the silence.
He looks up, his blue eyes steady. "She is."
"You've done a good job with her. Home-schooling can't be easy."
"It's what she needs."
There's no defensiveness in his tone, just certainty. But I catch the edge of worry beneath it.
"She's lucky to have you," I say.
He doesn't respond right away. Just looks at me for a long moment, like he's trying to decide if I mean it.
"She misses things," he says finally. "Other kids. Structure that isn't just me."
"She seems happy."
"She is. Mostly." He pauses, his jaw tightening slightly. "But I wonder sometimes if I'm doing right by her. Keeping her out here, away from everything."
The admission surprises me. Not the worry, but the fact that he's saying it out loud.
"You're giving her safety," I say. "And attention. A lot of kids don't get that."
He looks down at his bowl, his expression unreadable.
I take a breath and keep going, my voice softer now. "I taught for years. I saw kids in classrooms who had everything and they were still lonely. Still felt invisible. What matters most isn't where you are. It's whether someone sees you."
He looks up again, and this time his gaze holds mine.
"She sees you," I add. "That's obvious."
The tension in his jaw eases slightly, and his shoulders drop just a fraction.
"You're good with her," he says quietly.
"I like kids. Always have."
"Why'd you stop teaching?"
I set my spoon down and lean back in my chair, considering how much to say.
"I got tired of feeling replaceable," I say finally.
"I poured everything into it, and it was never enough.
The kids were great. But the system, the administration, the parents…
it wore me down. I started tutoring because I thought it would be different.
And it is, in some ways. But it's also—" I pause, searching for the right word. "Temporary. I'm always temporary."
Ezra's quiet for a moment, watching me.
"That why you're up here?" he asks.
I nod. "Needed space. Time to think."
"And?"
"And I still don't have answers." I smile faintly. "But at least I'm not freezing to death in the woods anymore."
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close.
"You were close," he says. "Another hour and you'd have been in real trouble."
"I know." The admission comes easier than I expect. "Thank you. For finding me."
He nods once, then picks up his spoon again.
We finish eating in comfortable silence, and when I'm done, I carry my bowl to the counter. He follows, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor, and takes the bowl from my hands before I can rinse it.
"I've got it," he says.
"I can help."
"You've done enough."
I step back and let him work, watching as he rinses the bowls and stacks them neatly by the basin.
His hands are large and scarred, his knuckles rough. But his movements are precise, nothing wasted.
I look away before he catches me staring and move back toward the fire, lowering myself onto the couch. Bolt lifts his head from where he's sprawled on the rug, tail thumping once, then settles back down with a heavy sigh.
Ezra finishes at the counter and turns, leaning against it with his arms crossed. He's watching me again, his expression thoughtful.
"Storm's not letting up," he says.
I glance toward the window. Snow is still falling thick and fast, the glass fogged over completely.
"No," I agree.
"I'll get you a blanket."
He nods and moves toward a cupboard near the back of the cabin, pulling out a thick wool blanket and a pillow. He brings them to me, setting them on the arm of the couch.
Our hands brush briefly as I take them, and I feel the warmth of his skin.
"Get some rest," he says.
I nod, and he steps back, moving toward the hallway.
"Ezra?"
He stops and looks back.
"Thank you," I say again. "For all of it."
He holds my gaze for a moment, something unreadable passing across his face.
"You're safe here," he says quietly.
Then he turns and disappears down the hallway, his footsteps fading into silence.
I sit on the couch, the blanket draped across my lap, and stare into the fire.