Chapter 7: Sled to the Truck

Astrid did not look at me when I sat up the next morning.

She stood at the stove with her back turned, stirring oatmeal.

"Good morning," I said.

"Morning."

"You're angry."

"I'm not angry." She put the spoon down hard. "I'm making a mistake and I'm watching myself do it."

"That's a nice way to say you regret last night."

"I don't regret it." She finally turned, and her gray eyes were miserable. "That's the problem."

I pulled the green bag around my shoulders and waited.

"The storm's done," Astrid said. "The plows will be through in a few days. You'll go and I'll be here, and it'll be worse."

"Maybe I won't go."

"You have a cabin on a lake."

"I have a cabin I've never lived in and a dead truck." I stood up, bag trailing. "I could stay."

"You can't."

"Why not?"

She opened her mouth, closed it again, and stared at the oatmeal.

"Fine," I said. "Then I'll sleep in the shed with the dogs."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not. They're better company than you are this morning."

For one second her mouth twitched, and I knew I had her.

"You're impossible," she said.

"I'm Swedish-Finnish. It's a family trait."

"The oatmeal's burning."

We ate it burned, side by side at the table, with her knee against mine under the wood.

Neither of us moved away.

"The dogs are out of food by tomorrow," I said, after the second bowl. "I have a full forty-pound bag in the truck box."

"Four miles of drifts."

"There's a sled in the shed."

Astrid put her spoon down very slowly.

"Mae's sled," she said.

"Yes."

"Your dogs aren't used to it."

"Moose pulled that harness like he was born in it," I said. "Juno and Birch can run behind him. Pip rests."

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