“Sure, but I can either cook or overthink, so . . .”
“I’ll get that generator started.” He disappears into the living room and after some rustling as he pulls on his coat and boots, I hear the back door open, followed by a curse.
I’d moved a package of bacon from the freezer to the fridge last night with an eye toward cooking it up this morning. I could do an egg scramble on the camp stove, but I’ve had about enough of improvising for the last twenty-four hours. If Levi can get us some electricity, then I want to cook on a subpar electric stovetop, dang it.
A few minutes later, I hear a soft hum, and the overhead light blinks on. I know the generator is probably rattling loud enough to wake the entire forest, but it’s not too bad in here. I turn a burner knob on the stove, and the red light blinks on. We’re in business.
I expect Levi to reappear, but he doesn’t. I fry some bacon to the perfect crispness and crumble it into the scramble I made with Havarti cheese slices one of the moms threw in—it feels like a Liz Bixby move. Levi still hasn’t appeared. I cover the skillet with a lid and shift it to one of the unused burners.
I don’t see Levi through the side door, so I head to the back door. I spot him easily through the big bay window, shoveling a path from the back door toward my car. I haven’t even wanted to look to see how dire the situation is. I brave a glance toward it now. Answer: it is up-to-the-car-windows dire. I’ve also never seen that much snow on the roof of my car.
I open the door, and a bitter spike of cold stabs me in the face. “Levi! Breakfast!” I slam the door on accident, but I want nothing to do with that cold. I’d thought it was chilly in here, but compared to that temperature outside, this cabin is clearly a wonder of modern insulation.
I hurry over to the fireplace to revive it, and once it greedily licks at a fuel log, I head back to the kitchen to check on the eggs. A minute later, Levi clatters in through the back, stomps his snow boots, and then he’s in the kitchen in his socks.
“Smells amazing.” He goes to the cabinet with the plates.
“Did you forget I rock a mean egg?” I serve up the scramble, divided between the two plates he brings me.
I set the skillet back on the stove and follow him over to the table, sliding into the seat opposite him as he sets the plates down.
He takes a bite and smiles. “No. I didn’t forget.”
There’s something in the way he says the words, an extra weight to them. We eat in silence, both too happy to have protein to start what is going to be a long—and most likely strange—day.
“I can make some more if you need to refuel after all that shoveling,” I say.
“No, this is plenty, thanks.”
Again, we fall silent. He doesn’t seem bothered by it, but to me, it’s full of unsaid things, and I try not to squirm.
When we’re finished, he takes my plate and walks to the sink. “I’ll handle cleanup, but I’m going to get the furnace and hot water heater started so that I don’t give myself hypothermia from arctic tap water.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “I’ll call Mr. Earl and explain the delay. Do we know how long we’re going to be stuck here?”
He pulls out his phone. “Let me try my dad again.” A few seconds later, his face softens slightly.
A pang of guilt mixes poorly with the heavy bacon in my stomach. He’s always so calm that it’s easy to overlook when things are getting to him.
“Hey, Dad. No, we’re fine. Yeah, looks like the cabin held up well.” He goes on to explain how much snow is on the ground and about getting the generator started. He has to reassure Dr. Taft twice that no emissions from the generator are getting into the house.
I know why Dr. Taft is obsessed with this: ten years ago, he had an older couple who had a bad heater and no carbon monoxide detector. They’d gotten carbon monoxide poisoning, and it had sent the husband to the ICU for three days before he stabilized enough to be on the regular floor and then eventually released.
“How do I light the furnace and the water heater?” he asks. “Oh, okay. That makes sense. Most places I spend the winter are on gas systems. Yeah, no, I know. Yes, I agree. So, how long before the roads get plowed up here?”
This is the information I’m most interested in, but as I watch worry lines appear on Levi’s forehead, I get the sense I won’t like the answer. They talk a little longer before Levi hangs up and leans against the wall with a sigh.
“Bad news?” I ask.
“This is a private road,” he says. “The county will get to the state highway first. That’ll get taken care of today. They may already be clearing it now. The county road will take longer. Depends on how bad the state highway is. They’ll eventually do this road, but it’s a lower priority. They expect anyone up here during this weather to have snow tires or four-wheel drive.”
“I’ve never needed them,” I tell him. “It’s not an issue in Creekville. I should have thought about getting snow tires yesterday, but everyone was so worried about getting us on the road, I figured the smarter play was beating the storm.” I slump. “I’m sorry, Levi.”
“Whoa, no, don’t worry about me. I’m not missing anything or needed anywhere but here. No apologies needed. If anything, I feel bad that we didn’t find a motel last night. It would have been on a main highway and already cleared by now.”
“That’s not your fault,” I say.
“Oh, good. So we both agree that we are excellent people who did nothing wrong.”
