4. Kirk
KIRK
The girl won't stop moving.
Even in the dark, even wrapped in quilts that dwarf her small frame, she shifts. Fidgets. Her hands flutter over Barnaby's fur, smoothing it down in nervous, repetitive strokes. The dog eats it up, tail thumping against the bed frame with rhythmic thuds that echo through the cabin.
I light the first kerosene lantern, the flame catching with a soft whoosh. Yellow light spills across the floor, carving sharp shadows into the corners. The temperature's already dropping. I can feel it in the air, that particular bite that settles into your lungs and stays there.
"Is that safe?" Stella asks. "I mean, the fumes and everything?"
"Safer than freezing."
"Right. Obviously. I just thought maybe?—"
"It's fine."
She falls silent. For about three seconds. Then, "Do you have more of those?"
"Yeah."
I move through the cabin without thinking. Spent years in this place, the last five alone, and I know every floorboard by heart. Which ones creak. Which ones are solid. Where the furniture sits, where the supplies are stacked. The darkness doesn't slow me down.
The woodstove in the corner is still warm from this morning. I shove in more split logs, adjust the damper. The fire catches quick, flames licking up the sides of the wood with hungry efficiency. Heat begins to radiate outward in waves.
"Oh, thank God," Stella breathes behind me.
I light two more lanterns, spacing them around the main room.
The light helps. Not much, but enough. Enough to see the way she's huddled on the bed, knees drawn up under the quilts, auburn hair wild around her face.
Enough to see how Barnaby has abandoned all pretense of being my dog and plastered himself against her side like she's the only thing keeping him alive.
Traitor.
I head for the storage area. The cabin's not big—main room, bedroom, small bathroom with a composted toilet and a gravity-fed sink.
Everything built for function. For survival.
The storage area is more of a closet, really, shelves crammed with canned goods, dry beans, rice, flour. I take stock with a practiced eye.
Two weeks' worth. Maybe three if I stretch it.
Not ideal.
The plan had been to restock this weekend, drive into town for supplies before the real winter hit. But the storm came early, and now I've got a stranded city girl and a week-long siege ahead of us.
Could be worse.
Could be a lot worse.
"What are you doing?" Stella calls out.
"Inventory."
"Of what?"
"Food."
There's a pause. Then, in a smaller voice, "How much do we have?"
"Enough."
It's not a lie. We won't starve. But we won't be eating like kings, either. I grab a can of soup, some crackers. Simple. Easy to heat on the woodstove.
When I turn around, she's standing.
Right in the room, quilts wrapped around her shoulders like a cape, bare feet on the cold floor. Wobbling slightly.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Helping."
"You're not."
"I could be. I can—I don't know, help with the fire or something. Stir the soup. Whatever you need."
"I need you to sit down."
"I'm fine."
She's not fine. Her leg's bruised to hell, her ankle swollen. She took a hit to the head hard enough to knock her out. She's running on nerves and adrenaline, and when that crashes, she's going to drop.
"Sit. Down."
"You can't just order me around like?—"
"I can when you're injured in my cabin during a whiteout."
Her jaw sets. Eyes flash in the lamplight, stubborn and bright. For a second I think she's actually going to argue, going to push back just for the sake of it.
Then Barnaby whines, a soft, plaintive sound, and she deflates.
"Fine. But I don't like being useless."
"You're not useless. You're injured."
"Same thing."
It's not, but I don't argue. I just point at the bed until she shuffles back over and sits, wincing as she tucks her legs under the quilts again. Barnaby immediately resumes his position as her personal furnace.
I heat the soup on the woodstove. The cabin smells like split wood and kerosene, underlaid with the faint metallic tang of cold. Outside, the wind screams. It sounds like something alive, something hungry, clawing at the walls.
"Does it always sound like that?" Stella asks.
"When it's bad."
"And this is bad."
"Yeah."
She wraps her arms around herself, pulling the quilts tighter. "How long have you lived here?"
"Twenty years."
"Twenty—" She gazes at me. "You've been up here for twenty years?"
"Built the place myself."
"Why?"
It's not a question I get often. Most people who know me don't ask. They know better. But she's looking at me with genuine curiosity, no judgment in her face. Just… interest.
"Needed the space," I say.
"From what?"
Everything. Everyone. The noise and the crowds and the constant press of people who wanted things from me, who needed me to be someone I wasn't anymore.
"Things," I settle on.
She doesn't push. Just nods slowly, like that makes perfect sense. Maybe to her, it does.
The soup's hot enough. I pour it into two bowls, bring one over to her. She takes it with both hands, careful not to spill.
"Thank you."
I grunt.
We eat in silence. Or, I eat in silence. She makes small noises of appreciation between sips, little hums that set my teeth on edge for reasons I don't want to examine. When she's done, she sets the bowl aside and looks around the cabin with new attention.
"This is really nice," she says. "I mean, for being off-grid and everything. It's cozy."
Cozy. Right.
"It's functional."
"It's more than that. You built this yourself?"
"Yeah."
"The furniture too?"
I glance at the table, the chairs, the bed frame. All rough-hewn, solid. Made to last. "Yeah."
"That's incredible. I can barely assemble an IKEA shelf without having a breakdown."
The corner of my mouth twitches. I force it still.
She stands again. Before I can tell her to sit, she's moving toward the bookshelf in the corner, trailing quilts like a cloak. She runs her fingers over the spines, tilting her head to read the titles.
"You read Steinbeck?"
"Sometimes."
"I love Steinbeck. East of Eden is one of my favorite books." She pulls out a battered copy, flips through it. "Have you read this one?"
"Three times."
Her face lights up. Actual, genuine delight. It transforms her, makes her glow brighter than the kerosene lamps. "Really? What did you think of?—"
The lamp on the table flickers.
She stops mid-sentence, eyes going wide. "What was that?"
"Wind," I say. But I move toward the window anyway, check the latch. It's secure. Everything's secure. But the storm's getting worse, battering the cabin with fists of ice and snow.
Stella sets the book down carefully and wraps the quilts tighter. "It's really not going to let up, is it?"
"No."
"And we're really stuck here."
"Yeah."
She takes a breath. Lets it out slow. I watch her square her shoulders, lift her chin. Choosing to be brave even though I can see the fear underneath.
"Okay," she says. "Okay. Then we make the best of it."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to explain that "making the best of it" isn't something that comes naturally to me anymore. So I just turn away, start checking the other supplies. Batteries for the radio. Extra wicks for the lamps. The emergency medical kit.
Behind me, I hear her talking to Barnaby. Soft, soothing nonsense. The dog huffs happily.
I shut my eyes. Count to ten.
This is going to be a long week.
The ham radio sits on a shelf near the bed, old and battered but functional. I haven't used it in months. Haven't needed to. But now I pull it down, check the battery pack. Still good.
Stella watches from the bed, eyes tracking my movements. "What is that?"
"Ham radio."
"Does it work?"
"Should."
I flip the switch. Static crackles to life, loud in the quiet cabin. I adjust the frequency, searching for the familiar channel. More static. Then?—
"—calling any stations in the north ridge area. This is Miller. Anyone copy?"
I grab the handset. "Miller. It's Jotham."
The static breaks. "Kirk? That you, son?"
"Yeah."
"Christ, I was hoping you'd check in. You okay up there?"
"Fine. Got a situation, though."
Stella leans forward, eyes wide. Barnaby lifts his head, ears pricked.
"What kind of situation?" Miller asks.
"Car went off the road about two miles from my place. Driver's here. Injured, but stable."
There's a pause. Then, "Injured how bad?"
I glance at Stella. She's watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "Bruised. Possible concussion. Sprained ankle. Nothing critical."
"Thank God for that. They need a medevac?"
"No. But they need a way out."
Another pause, longer this time. "Kirk, I'm gonna level with you. We've got reports coming in from all over. Trees down, power lines snapped, roads buried under four feet of drifts. This storm's a monster."
"How long until the plows get up here?"
Miller sighs. It's a heavy sound, weighted with bad news. "At least a week. Maybe more. The main highway's completely impassable. We've got crews working around the clock, but it's slow going."
A week.
I look at Stella. She's gone pale, one hand pressed to her mouth.
"Copy that," I say.
"You got enough supplies?"
"Yeah."
"Heat?"
"Woodstove and fireplace. Power's out, but I've got lanterns."
"Good. That's good. You just sit tight, son. Soon as the roads clear, we'll get someone up there."
"Understood."
"And Kirk?"
"Yeah?"
"Keep your guest warm. Storm like this, hypothermia's a real risk."
I grunt. Miller knows me well enough not to expect more.
"Miller out."
The static returns. I switch off the radio, set it back on the shelf.
Stella peers at me. "A week?"
"At least."
"But—I can't—I have to get to Denver. I have to?—"
"You're not going anywhere."
"You don't understand. This gala, it's my entire career. If I don't show up, Jack will?—"
"Don't care."
She flinches like I've slapped her. "Excuse me?"
"I don't care about your gala or your boss or your career. What I care about is keeping you alive. And right now, that means you stay here until the roads clear."
Her hands clench in the quilts. "You can't just?—"
"I can. And I am."
We stare at each other. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, her jaw tight. She's angry. Scared. Frustrated. All of it written clear across her face.
I don't budge.
Finally, she looks away. "This is a nightmare."
"Could be worse."
"How?"
"You could be dead in that car."
The words hit like a punch. She sucks in a breath, and when she looks back at me, the tears are closer to spilling over.
"I know," she whispers. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm just—I worked so hard for this. And now it's all falling apart, and there's nothing I can do."
I don't like it. Don't like the way her pain makes me want to fix things I can't fix.
"You're alive," I say, quieter this time. "That's what matters."
She nods. Swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. "You're right. You're absolutely right. I just—I need a minute."
"Take your time."
I turn away, give her space. Move to the woodstove and add another log even though it doesn't need it. Just to have something to do with my hands.
Behind me, I hear her sniffle. Hear Barnaby's low whine and the rustle of quilts as he presses closer to her.
The wind howls.
The cabin creaks.
And outside, the snow keeps falling.