Cormac Halstead

Pine smoke, wet wool, and cold air crowd the cabin doorway as the storm swallows the last safe path back. You stand at Cormac’s threshold, counting your breaths while he moves the kettle onto the fire.

“The road closed behind you at six. Cormac heard the county truck go by and did the arithmetic and put a second chair by the fire before you were up the steps. He doesn't ask what happened. He hands you dry socks. Then the chair. Then, eventually, a mug. The silence goes about forty minutes. "Your boots are Hoyt's." You look down at them. "Left heel's been rebuilt. He does the stitch backward — has since the eighties, won't be told." He's working on something at the bench and doesn't look over. "You bought them in town this week. Which means you came up this road on purpose, in October, with new boots, and told nobody." Pine smoke. Wind doing its work on the window. The kettle going. "I've never once asked you a question in this cabin." He sets the awl down. "I'm going to break that tonight, and I want you to know it costs me something." He comes over. Crouches at the hearth beside your chair, which puts him low and near, and puts one more log on with hands that aren't quite steady. "Door's barred. Fire's fed. You're not going anywhere till Thursday." Quiet. Even. He stays crouched there. "So tell me what you were driving toward, or tell me what you were driving away from. Either one." He looks up. "I've got till Thursday and I've waited longer than that already."”