Chapter 7: The Ramp

"Put him in his truck," I said.

Hoyt looked at the man in his arms, and at the creek, and at me.

"You're sure."

"He walked here. He can drive home. Put him behind the wheel and leave the door open."

Hoyt carried him down the road himself, and came back alone twenty minutes later.

"He woke up," he said. "He sat there with his hands on the wheel a while, and then he drove off."

"Did he say anything?"

"He said your name once. Then he started the engine."

I told myself I was not going to think about that.

I thought about it until the sky went grey.

At six, a truck came up the creek road with its bed stacked high with lumber.

Trudy was frying eggs. She put the spatula down and went to the window.

"Freya," she said. "Don't be mad."

"Why would I be mad?"

"Because he's got a saw."

I rolled out onto the porch.

Thane was backing his truck up to the foot of the cabin steps, in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow.

He got out, dropped the tailgate, and pulled a plank off the pile without looking up.

The camp was coming out of its doors one by one, in coats over pajamas, to stand along the edge of the yard.

Nobody said a word.

I wheeled to the top of the steps.

"What are you doing?" I said.

"Building a ramp."

"I didn't ask for one."

"You'll need one."

"Trudy's building one."

"Trudy," he said, glancing at her, "is a baker."

"I'm right here," Trudy said.

"Go home, Thane."

"I'll go when it's built."

He set the first board across two sawhorses and cut it with a handsaw. He had to stop halfway through to cough.

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