Page 50 of Untouchable

"There's a wheelbarrow around the corner to your left. Get it and then follow me."

Harp is thankful as he rushes to have another set of hands. He'd planned on building a permanent structure for the cats this year, but the time had gotten away from him, just as it always seems to. There are two mama cats somewhere in the valley who were late in kitten season—one of which he'd seen this morning. They would need somewhere warm to bed down and this will have to do.

* * *

Parker pullson the thick leather work gloves that make his hands feel two times larger. He’s grateful to Harp—not only for saving Parker’s frozen butt from the snow, but also for acting so down-to-business, for not dwelling. It’s easier for Parker to tune out the voice in his head—the one saying he’s being a nuisance—as he follows his instructions, pushing the wheelbarrow through the snow to the little shed in the back. His heart-rate is still up, but he feels better—he’s glad, too, to be here, instead of inching his way down the icy mountain roads, bracing himself for a patch of ice that might send him over the edge of a cliff.

“What do you need me to do?” Parker asks.

“We’re just bringing this stuff inside,” Harp says, gesturing to a tall stack of straw bales and a pile of weathered pallets. “Goes faster with two people.”

“You’re… building a cat house?” Parker asks as he watches Harp begin to load up the wheelbarrow.

“Yup. Cold weather shelter. Nothing fancy.”

Parker is glad Harp is looking away so he can’t see Parker smiling at him. Harp’s in his element here, and he moves with a swiftness and ease Parker rarely sees from him. And even though Harp is explaining the building process to him, it’s almost as if Parker isn’t there—or rather, Parker realizes, it’s that Harp is completely un-self-conscious. He’s not bracing himself, he’s not filtering himself. He’s simply being Harp.

Parker is thrilled.

Harp balances straw bales in the wheelbarrow and then directs Parker to take them back to the concrete landing at the back of the house. While Parker obeys, Harp props two palettes up, stands in between them, and lifts, balancing them a little off the ground and moving forward in a stunted farmer's walk.

When he reaches the landing, he lets one palette tumble into place with a sharp sound that echoes through the valley. He manhandles the other one into place as Parker starts stacking straw wherever Harp directs. The improvised little house takes shape quickly, like a straw igloo on top of the wooden palettes.

By the time they're done, there's no sound but their heavy breathing and the snow falling.

The task, the work, is steadying, and when they finish, Parker’s anxiety from sliding across the ice has disappeared, replaced by the tired satisfaction of a job well done. It reminds him of massage, in a way—tangible results for his actions, knowing and seeing that what he’s doing is making someone’s life a little better. In this case, it seems, that someone is the feral cats that live in the valley.

And, yeah, he can’t help staring a little bit as Harp throws around straw bales like they weigh nothing.

Though Parker’s default state is always to fill up silence with chatter, he finds himself not feeling compelled to do that now. It is enough to simply be here, doing an important task, together.

"That's what I was most worried about," Harp admits, dragging a forearm across his hairline. He's managed to break a sweat in spite of the snow. "Now that that's done, let's get you set up."

* * *

Harp doesn't meanto make such a direct parallel between Parker and a stray cat, but to be quite honest, that's the only way he's able to move forward.

Parker isn't a guest, a friend, a—whatever it is he is, depending on how honest Harp is being about the square footage of his mental space dedicated to Parker. No, Harp decides that Parker is another member of his adopted family, another animal—or, well, "friend"... Maybe it's not so bad to call Parker a friend in his mind.

But if he starts to think of Parker as a friend, Parker staying at his house feels more like a social visit, and that's going to cause Harp's anxiety to spiral.

So, no. Parker is just another... being. In his house.

Another mouth to feed, Harp tells himself. Bingo, doesn't get any easier than that.

* * *

Parker’s awkwardness is back.He knows Harp likes being alone, and he’s sure that hosting a hyperactive 26-year-old who talks too much and overshares is Harp’s literal nightmare. At the back door, they stomp on the mat to dislodge the snow from their shoes. Parker had been warm enough while they’d been working, and it’s only now that he realizes his running shoes and the bottom of his scrubs are soaked through with melted snow.

“I’ll stay out of your hair,” Parker says as they step inside. “It can’t last for more than a few hours and then I’ll head out.”

He doesn’t even want to think about how hellish trying to make it down the mountain at night will be. Maybe, he thinks vaguely, he can just curl up in his car and wait until the morning.

Harp gives him a long look.

"We have two options for how to do this if you want to leave now. I figure you can call a tow truck in the middle of this snow and pay whatever exorbitant fee they want to get out here and actually winch you out of the shoulder. Or, I can get my winch ready to go—I figure maybe three hours tops, and I can get you out, which puts you on the road late in snow."

Parker frowns. "I can just call and—"

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