The cabin, on paper, was solid. Pine logs, chinked. Fireplace. Roof patched. Floorboards nailed tight. It should have held.
But the crawl space under the raised floor turned into a wind tunnel at night. The valley wind screamed beneath the cabin, stole warmth through planks the way debt steals hope: steady and impersonal. Even with the fire glowing low, water in the wash basin froze before morning. Sarah would wake to the hard shine of ice and feel a cold fear settle in her stomach like a stone.
The neighbors had suggestions, because people like giving advice that costs them nothing.
“Pack straw under the cabin,” old Mr. Callaway had said, leaning on his cane like it was a judge’s gavel. “Stops drafts.”
Sarah did. She crawled under the cabin with a lantern and a bundle of straw and a mouth full of bitter language she didn’t let out. She packed it into corners, stuffed it between posts, came out coated in dirt and spiderwebs.
The next morning, frost still glittered on the floorboards.
“Hanging canvas around the foundation might help,” the pastor’s wife offered, bringing preserved apples and sympathy that tasted sweet and helpless.
Sarah hung canvas. She nailed it tight. The wind found the seams and laughed.
