Chapter 8: One Bed

The bed was a wide old iron frame with three quilts on it, and the woodstove glowed orange in the corner.

I lay on the left side with my back to him, and he lay on the right with his back to me.

There was a hand's width of cold sheet between us.

Neither of us said anything for a long time.

The storm slammed the shutters, and the wind found every crack in the wall.

"Are you asleep?" I asked.

"No."

"Me neither."

"I know." He shifted. "You've been shivering for ten minutes."

"I'm not shivering."

"Marit."

"It's the splint. It's cold metal."

"It's wood."

I clenched my teeth to hold them still.

"Come here," Lars said. "It's minus twenty. I'm not asking for anything."

I thought about that for a moment.

Then I rolled over, and slid across the hand's width of cold, and pressed my front against his back.

He was warm.

He was so warm that I almost made a sound.

I laid my good hand flat against his side to keep my balance, and found his bare ribs under the hem of his shirt.

Under my palm there was a long ridge of scar, raised and uneven, running from his spine round toward his chest.

"What's this?" I whispered.

"Black bear. Eight years ago. I was a warden for two years before I took the pack."

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