Page 62 of Fight

I check under the lid, and a plume of hot steam escapes. The aroma has my mouth watering and stomach growling. I divide the helpings between the two mugs, and the spoons slowly sink into the thickened soup.

After handing one to him, I take a spot next to the wood stove, sitting sideways on the rug in front of it.

“Thanks for this,” he says. “And for earlier.”

I nod, blowing on a spoonful of the steamy sustenance. Once it’s cooled off, I get my first taste and have to resist shoveling the rest into my mouth. The savory broth comforts me from the inside out, pacifying my worried thoughts and rumbling stomach. “This tastes delicious.” Callahan hums in agreement upon taking a bite.

We eat in silence, letting the crackling fire, powerful winds, and scraping spoons do all the talking. Occasionally, we exchange glances, but eventually, I turn and face the fire to finish my meal.

“I found some board games,” I say. “If you want to?—”

His empty mug lands firmly on the top of the bookshelf, and the spoon rattles. “We need more wood for the fire.”

“Oh.” I spin around. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He stands, pulling on his outer layers. “No.”

“Okay,” I respond. “I’ll clean up.”

He exits the lookout but doesn’t slam the door like I tried to do earlier. I spend the next half hour cleaning up from lunch, stretching out the task to keep my hands occupied. I place the remaining wash water in a pot on the wood stove to keep it warm and pour the preboiled water into our water bottles. Then I dry the bowl and return it to its place on the shelf. Once that’s done, Ibusy myself with tidying the space, including making the bed. What if he wants to go back to sleep? I unmake the bed and muss the covers the same as before.What’s wrong with me?I remake the bed and ignore any other stupid idea my brain churns up.

He was right last night; he did everything. Got us shelter, water, and fire. I gotta start pulling my weight by cooking and cleaning. It’s an easy role to fill, considering I was raised to serve men in whatever capacity God or the church needed me to. It was my duty, and one I was proud to perform, until I started questioning things. At first, the guilt of doubting my faith had nearly swallowed me whole. I kept to myself, fell depressed, and prayed away my thoughts, but they only grew stronger. Then I started EMT training, which exposed me to new people and new ideas, and some of those ideas made a lot of sense.

Peeking between the slats on the shutters, I observe Callahan putting together a decent heap of wood. He’s splitting logs with an axe, and even half camouflaged by snow, he looks hotter than any man should doing chores.Good Lord. Clearing the lust-filled haze, I layer and lace up to brave the blizzard, trudging through the snow and collecting as much split wood as I can carry inside.

I pile the remaining wood logs from the cabinet next to the woodburning stove and refill it with the freshly cut ones. I’m tempted to use a blanket to help carry more pieces at once, but with the wind wreaking havoc out there, I’m too afraid it would get ripped from my fingers and blow off the side of the mountain.

Once the base cabinet is restocked, any extras are stacked on the platform outside the door for easy access. When Callahan is satisfied with the quantity, he carries the axe back to an exterior door at the base of the lookout, where he must have found it. We work in tandem without exchanging words, picking up logs from the shrinking pile and climbing stairs until wood is stacked about three feet tall. He gathers the last chopped pieces and tosses themup on the catwalk. I arrange them with the others, then we stomp the snow off our boots and pants before entering inside.

I don’t need to check a mirror to know my cheeks are blotchy from the stinging cold air. His are rosy too, but his appear to be due to exertion not windburn. He strips down to his base layer and lays his pants over the chair I sat in earlier, then grabs his water bottle from the table. He inspects it, noticing it’s been recently refilled, and takes a few glugs, replenishing himself after the workout. With the hem of his thermal shirt, he wipes his brow, exposing his chest and the tattoos I remember from our nights together.

I sit on the floor, quickly averting my gaze to untie my boots packed with snow from hiking back and forth. I peel off my damp socks and lay them near the fire, then sweep up the bits of bark and wood splints from the recent haul using the dustpan and push them into a small mound. We can use it as kindling later.

Gulping from my water bottle, I relax, happy to be out of the storm.

“Have you cleaned the cut on your forehead today?” he asks.

“Yeah, I washed up earlier and added some antibiotic ointment from my first aid kit. There's warm water in that pot”—I gesture to the wood stove—“in case you want to wash up. It feels nice.”

He acknowledges me with a nod but doesn’t do more than remove his socks and lay them next to mine to dry. We’ve barely spoken today, and it’s wearing on me. With each unspoken word, we feed the elephant in the room, nourishing it and helping it grow.

“Did your text message go through today?” I saw him with his phone on the catwalk earlier.

“No.”

“I tried to turn on my phone, but it’s dead. Or broken. I don’t know.”

Dead air.

“Have you ever been here before?” I ask.

He gives me a blank stare.

“Well, of course you have, you’re the one that got us here. Obviously, you’ve been here. That was a stupid question.” Great, now I’m rambling.

He cocks a mirthful eyebrow at me, then turns away.

“You know, if this weren’t life or death, this place would make for a cool vacation spot.”

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