Page 32

Before

WE DIDN’T TALK much, the days after Griff left for the last time. I didn’t imagine Dad did much talking before I got there, and the habit stuck. He’d get up before I woke up in the morning, and by the time I dragged myself out at what still felt too early for human activity he’d have breakfast ready. Corn cakes, mostly, drizzled with some honey, a little meat in gravy to bulk it up. Then he’d be off for most of the day working, and I had nothing to do but sit around the cabin. After not too long, I got bored enough that I organized and scrubbed and dusted everything I could get my hands on, and soon the cabin looked...

Well, it still looked like a dirty, tiny cabin in the middle of the woods, but it was at least fresh dirt now.

I woke one morning to the sound of Dad chopping wood outside. I shimmied into my jeans and fleece and boots and walked outside, standing in the doorway with the crisp morning air waking me up.

Dad had finished and was snapping the cover back on the hatchet, the wood already stacked. He cut wood every morning, assuring me that we’d never regret having too much wood, but we’d sure as hell regret not having enough.

“You’re up early,” he said.

“I can’t tell.” The light was so long that one day nearly bumped up against another, this time of year.

“Well, let’s see.” He pushed up his sleeve to look at the rugged analog watch that ticked away on his wrist. “Five forty-five. Early for you.”

“Huh,” I said, because I couldn’t think of the right response to that information. I crossed my arms over my chest, tucking my hands in to keep them warm. “What are you doing today?”

“Hunting,” he said. “With two of us to feed, I’ve got to step up the canning and smoking. Not that you eat much more than a bird. You should come.”

“I’d just slow you down,” I said.

“It’ll be more exciting than staring at the lake all day again.”

“I really shouldn’t,” I said. “My leg...”

“You’re stronger than you think. Can’t let a little limp hold you back,” he said.

I thought about explaining to him that I wasn’t holding myself back. I was pushing myself. I’d walked back and forth around the north side of the shore every day; I’d done my exercises and then some, knowing that I had to improve quickly if I was going to have any kind of mobility out here in this rough terrain.

“You can’t just stay holed up here,” he said. He braced a hand against his brow to shade it from the sun. “And I don’t like you being here without knowing your way around, and knowing what’s safe and what isn’t. Being able to feed yourself.”

“Fine,” I said, frustrated. I didn’t want to hurt myself, but I didn’t want yet another fight, either. Not when we’d finally been getting along. “I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t have to sound like I’m dragging you off to your funeral,” he said.

“I said I’d go. I’m going.” Maybe all we knew how to do was be mad at each other. By the time we were geared up, we were both in sour moods. I took too long getting ready for his liking, I was too slow following him, and Bo was off God-knew-where and that annoyed him, too.

“Stick close,” he told me every time I lagged behind, as if it was because I was lazy that I couldn’t keep up. I went as fast as I could without falling. Dead leaves and slick roots made it hard going, and every odd step made me grit my teeth in anticipation of pain, but I kept up. Mostly. And I didn’t complain.

I was looking at the ground, picking out a path, when Dad threw his arm up to stop me. I opened my mouth to ask him what the deal was, but he pressed a finger to his lips, then pointed.

A rabbit crouched up ahead, pinned in a ray of sunshine, Hallmark-gorgeous and haloed in golden light. Dad started to lift his rifle to turn Hallmark into horror show, but then he lowered it, pointed at my bow instead.

A rabbit. Could I kill a rabbit? Did I want to?

Well, did I want to eat this winter? Because this was how Dad fed himself. It’s only a rabbit, I thought, but that didn’t feel convincing.

I’d probably miss anyway.

I still had to think about every action and motion of shooting; none of it was in my muscle memory anymore. I thought through it like a checklist. Finger position, arm position, aim, breath, draw. Release.

The sound of the release startled the rabbit, but it had only a fraction of a second to begin to move, to react, before the arrow struck, punched through. The rabbit’s legs kick, kick, kicked, then slowed. I lowered the bow slowly, watching it die. I felt sick.

It’s just a rabbit.

The sickness ebbed.

“Good,” Dad said. He was grinning.