I kneel in front of her, ignoring the way her laugh does something weird to my chest. "Let me see."
She extends her leg, wincing. I carefully unlace her boot and ease it off. Her sock is soaked, her ankle swollen but not discolored enough to suggest a break.
"Sprain," I diagnose, my fingers gentle as I check the joint. "Bad one."
"How long before I can walk on it?"
"Few days, minimum. Week to be safe." I look up at her, finding her eyes on me, curious and way too direct. "I'll radio theranger station tomorrow. They can send someone up when the weather clears."
"Radio? Your phone doesn't work up here either?"
I'm surprised the disappointment doesn't crash the cabin roof. "No cell service for three miles. That's why I live here."
She absorbs this information, biting her lower lip. Another city girl tell. They all do that when they're trying not to panic about being disconnected.
"So... I'm stuck here?" Her voice is carefully neutral.
"Until your ankle heals or rescue comes. Whichever's first." I stand, putting distance between us. "Hope you like silence."
Her laugh returns, unexpected. "Not particularly. But I'm adaptable."
She doesn't look adaptable. She looks like someone who orders complicated coffee and posts every meal on Instagram.
I move to the small kitchen area, mostly to have something to do with my hands. "Hungry?"
"Starving," she admits. "I finished my trail mix hours ago."
I pull out a pot and start throwing together a stew—venison, potatoes, carrots. Simple food that fills the belly and warms the blood. My hands move automatically, the routine familiar and grounding.
Meanwhile, she's toweling her hair, leaving it a wild tangle around her face. She's shivering despite the fire.
"You need dry clothes," I say, cursing inwardly at the complication. "Bathroom's through there. I'll find you something."
She stands, testing her weight on her good foot. "Thank you. Again."
I watch her hop awkwardly toward the bathroom, refusing to help. Every interaction is another thread connecting us. I need fewer threads, not more.
In my bedroom, I dig through drawers for the smallest things I own. It's all going to swallow her whole anyway. I settle on an old flannel shirt and sweatpants with a drawstring she can tighten.
When I knock on the bathroom door, she cracks it open. Steam escapes from the small space, and I realize she's washed her face. She looks younger without the mud, more vulnerable.
"These'll be huge," I warn, passing the clothes through the gap.
"Beggars can't be choosers." Her fingers brush mine as she takes the bundle. "I appreciate it."
I return to the stew, stirring more aggressively than necessary. My cabin suddenly feels too small. I'm used to sharing these four walls with nothing but silence and the occasional company of my dog, Ruby, who's currently out patrolling the property.
As if summoned by my thoughts, I hear her familiar scratch at the door.
"That'll be my dog," I call toward the bathroom. "Don't scream or make sudden movements."
"Is she a wolf or something?" Her voice echoes from behind the door.
"German shepherd. But she's particular about strangers."
I let Ruby in, her fur damp from the rain. She shakes, spraying water across the floor, then immediately tenses, nose in the air. She's caught our guest's scent.
"Easy, girl," I murmur, hand on her head. "She's staying awhile."
