“Then we’ll hold it up,” she said.
That first night, they didn’t have a bed. They laid blankets on the floor near the cold fireplace. Walter built a small fire with scraps of wood he found stacked behind the cabin, damp but usable. The flames caught slowly, reluctant, then warmed the air with an orange breath.
Outside, the wind climbed the mountain and hit the cabin like it had a grudge.
Rain began after midnight. It drummed on the roof, and within minutes, water started dripping through a crack above Eleanor’s head.
Walter sat up immediately.
“Move,” he said, and dragged their blankets a few inches away, like shifting a chess piece.
Eleanor lay back down and listened to the storm. The cabin groaned and creaked, boards flexing, nails complaining.
Walter looked around and muttered, “We’re going to wake up in the mud.”
Eleanor reached for his hand.
“Walter,” she whispered.
