Page 50 of Penny for Your Saints

Once I know what I’m looking at, it’s easy to see the shape of the building, the A-Frame of dark glass windows set into the cabin’s lakefront face, the slumped, tapered side facing us with its cedar shingles patinated by weather and age seeming to emerge from beneath the ground—a stall of wooden boards with heavy iron fittings; including a door ring on the lake-facing side of the cabin. Just beside the structure, similarly dusted in snow—is a rack of what must be a few small boats covered in fatigue-print plastic tarp.

It isn’t much, but it’s a welcome sight after our hasty, bloody departure, and almost a whole day on the road.

The five of us hurry into the small vestibule through the main door; a built-in wooden bench for getting one’s boots on and off just inside.

“Caz, help me figure out what the fuck is going on with this solar battery and generator,” Quentin yelps from deeper inside the cabin.

It's cold enough inside the hunting lodge that we can all see our breath in the incomplete darkness. Once Caz and Q manage to get a few electric lanterns on, I can see the far end of the small cabin. The forest facing side of the structure boasts a decently sized L-shaped sitting area. It’s too large to be a sofa, but not quite expansive or plush enough to pass as a nesting space; the whole thing is furnished with ratty cushions, worn out pillows, and various animal skin throws hanging on the wall. To the right side of the seating area is a wooden ship's ladder that leads toa lofted sleeping area above—mismatching sized windows cast pale blue moonlight reflected off the snow.

I can tell even from down here that the bed is made to fit much more than two; it takes up nearly the entire loft.

On the other side is a fieldstone fireplace built atop a large slate ledge that stands in line with the rest of the shabbily constructed seating—my breath turning to steam in the cold air. I look longingly at the empty fireplace.

Luckily for us, below the hunting lodge ‘couch’ and the ledge of slate sitting beneath the stacked stone hearth, lies an unbroken line of split and stacked, dry wood.

I don't wait for anybody to give me a task I just set into motion, dropping my bags next to the built-in boot bench, kicking off my snowy shoes, and padding quietly to the fireplace.

As more lanterns come alive, it's easier to see the fire poker, the brass tin of fatwood, the small stack of old newspapers, and a metal box of waterproof matches stored neatly by the fireplace.

I pull the hooked fire poker from its iron hook on the stone chimney and lean in to reach up into the sooty chimney and unhook the primitive floo, then I set to work. Arranging several small split logs. A crinkled piece of paper and a few bits of fatwood kindling in the empty fireplace, swept clean of ashes.

As I work at building the fire, I can hear Sébastien behind me, the soft metallic sounds of him shuffling through different canned goods on the supply shelf that serves as a pantry just inside the door to the cabin. I hear Seb mutter something incomprehensible as he toes the black iron ring on a small wooden door built into the dusty floorboards. He lifts it, revealing a crawl space root cellar. I can't be certain of what he's saying. But it sounds affirmative. With any luck. We've got enough supplies to stake out the worst of our heat.

I'm about halfway through starting the fire, coaxing the small flames up to catch the larger logs now that the fat wood andpaper kindling are ablaze. I look up at my work at the hearth to see Frank—a dark silhouette against the backdrop of the lake facing A-frame’s motley assortment of sliding doors, casement windows, quarter arches, triangles, octagons, and one lone frame of stained glass at the very apex.

Something about him—the shadows wrapped around Frank, the moonlit snow glowing in the backdrop through so many different panes of glass, feels like seeing him for the first time. In his hands, a bottle of amber liquid catches the cool glow of the moon and turns it into a soft, warm glimmer.

Feeling my eyes on him, no doubt—Frank turns to face me—a barely leashed hunger radiating from him.

I can feel my pulse thumping in my neck, even though we’re nominally ‘safe’ now and I should finally be able to take a breath to relax… but something about the way that Frank looks at me is like a predator stalking its next meal—licking his chops in the anticipation of the kill—devouring. I crouch there, in the bloom of golden light from the fire as it begins to burn in earnest, the larger logs both caught and blooming with golden flame as I ease back onto my heels.

Just as I’m wondering if he’s going to pounce on me, to consume me whole, there is a loud click followed by a low hum and the warm glow of the few electric lights strewn around the cabin. A string of golden amber Christmas lights twinkles along the bottom of the lofted sleeping area; the long line of LEDs on dark green wire Cris-crossing this way and that over the den—a few exposed filament bulbs hanging over the metal basin sink, the boot bench, the high point of the A-frame, and the loft.

“Let there be light!” Quentin proclaims beneficently.

Already the fire and our five bodies have begun to warm the small space, my breath no longer showing in dense clouds, Caz shrugging out of his large parka before he sets to plugging in asurge protector and all of his various batteries and devices now that he and Q have settled the power situation.

Frank sets the bottle of whiskey on the slate overhang and carefully shrugs out of his leather jacket—laying it over the top of the constructed couch’s back cushions. Even though his t-shirt is black and doesn’t show the bloodstains—the tattered bullet hole shows a patch of bandage beneath, the hurried patch job yellowed and pin pricked with red where it’s soaked through with Frank’s blood and gore.

He deflates slightly as he plops down onto the arm of the “L” closest to the fire, wincing as his shoulder makes contact with the cushion as he leans back; allowing his left arm to hang limply at his side as he lifts the whiskey bottle off the slate with his right.

“Got anything stronger than this?” he asks Caz, unscrewing the cap clumsily with a single hand before flicking it toward the triangular wall of mismatched windows looking out over the silent, frozen lake.

Without meaning to, I’ve closed the distance between us—my fingers already moving toward the ruined sleeve of Frank’s T-shirt so I can tend to his wound.

“Don’t worry about me, Sweetheart.” He grins slyly, taking a swig from the open bottle before placing it between his thighs—using his newly freed hand to roll the sleeve of his shirt, to unwind the length of gauze that holds the meager few non-stick absorbent pads Seb and I rounded up out of the car’s first aid kit.

“Shut up,” I snarl, snatching the open bottle from his hand—slapping it away as I take my own pull before leaning in to get a look at the bullet wound.

“Well, it’s certainly the best of a bad situation.” I suck air through my teeth and set the bottle back on the slate overhang—just out of Frank’s reach. “Exit wound shows that the bullet isn’t still in the arm. Even if it glanced bone or nerve, the bleedingstopped and the bruising is pretty minor—it doesn't look like you’ve got an internal bleeding problem.” I click my tongue as Frank pushes forward in his seat—nearly knocking heads with me.

Quentin appears over my shoulder with a small, tin first aid kit and a reproachful look aimed at Frank—who has leaned forward to grab the bottle, poised to pour some of the spirit over his wound like some stupid character from a movie.

“Don’t waste that,” I snap—stealing the bottle from him deftly once more and passing it over my shoulder to Quentin, who whisks it away to the counter and the slight civilization of 5 metal camping mugs. “We have isopropyl and iodine don’t slosh the drinkable stuff around,” I growl, producing the small, flat amber bottle of iodine and matte clear bottle of rubbing alcohol from the kit along with a stack of cotton pads and a roll of clean gauze. “Plus—we’re going to start with soap and water anyway.” I look back over my shoulder to see Quentin nod—filling a metal kettle with water before hanging it on an iron hook over the fire built for just such a purpose.

Frank’s lip curls back as Quentin returns with a metal pot, a clean rag and a small bottle of castile soap from the metal basin sink. I thank Q with a silent nod, then set my materials on the slate and shimmy out of my parka—my black wig long abandoned—hair still pinned in a crown of copper braids against my head.

Caz and Seb slump exhausted, onto the cushioned seating on the opposite side of the “L” from Frank. Quentin brings them both a metal, granite-speckled camping mug with a few fingers of whiskey in it and takes my coat from me so that I can get to re-bandaging Frank.

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