He looked at the stranger. The old man wasn't looking at him. He was looking past Elias, toward the corner where Clara lay, her eyes wide and reflecting the firelight.
The knife slipped. A thin bead of red welted on his thumb. He didn't curse; he didn't have the energy to spare for anger. He simply put the thumb to his mouth, tasted the salt and iron, and went back to the pine. He was carving a small bird. A robin, or something like it. Clara had loved the robins that nested in the orchard back home. A heavy thud sounded against the heavy oak door. 8. When We Are in Need
The lantern sputtered, its flame a drowning wick in a pool of gray tallow. Outside, the wind screamed through the cracks in the cabin logs, a high, thin sound like a animal in a trap. Elias didn’t look up from the table. His fingers, cracked and mapped with dirt that no soap could reach anymore, worked a piece of dry pine with a small whittling knife. He looked at the stranger
The stranger gave a slow, barely perceptible nod. He hadn't come to be saved. He had been trying to reach the cabin because he knew people were in it. He was a trapper who knew the valley, who knew what the first winter did to greenhorns, and he had come through the blizzard to bring the only thing that mattered. The knife slipped