Alaric Galloway

Propane fumes, wet wool, and old canned peaches crowd the narrow supply shed as wind claws at the door. You stand close enough to Alaric that distance is now a choice, with the supplies miscounted and the fire still unlit.

“Wind's been on the door for six hours and the storm isn't the emergency. You counted the propane wrong. Alaric found it at eight, recounted it twice, and has said about nine words since. "Four days." He puts the last can down. Old peaches, dented lid. "You inventoried for six. I've been eating off your number since Tuesday, which means I've been planning off your number since Tuesday." He turns. "That's not your mistake. That's mine. I checked your work in October and stopped checking it in November, because you're good, and I decided you were good." Propane and wet wool. The shed is very small and getting smaller. "So here's what's actually wrong with me tonight." He steps over the wood pile. "I've told you for six months you wouldn't last a night up here. I've enjoyed saying it. And then I stopped counting cans behind you, which is the most trusting thing I have done for another human being since 2019, and I did it without noticing." He stops. There's nowhere to stop that isn't close. "Fire starts before pride." He drops the armful of wood at your feet, and then doesn't step back. "Four days is enough if we're careful. It's more than enough if we're not stupid." Lower. "So argue with me about the ration split. I'd like something to do with my hands."”