The cabin was older than it looked at a distance. Up close, the wood had warped and split, its grain raised like old scars. The door had resisted them when they first pushed inside, as though it had forgotten the shape of hands. Now it hung shut behind them, the outside sealed off.
Annie knelt by the hearth, what little fire she had coaxed from damp kindling struggling to keep its shape. It burned low and sullen, more smoke than flame. The pot above it gave off thin, reluctant steam.
Behind her, the cabin had gone quiet.
She smacked the flat of her hand against the floor, the noise having its intended effect:
“I wasn’t asleep! Prove it!”
Jean’s voice cut through the gloom, brittle and immediate. Annie simply adjusted the pot instead, nudging it a fraction closer to the strongest part of the flame. The supplies they had been issued were hardly appealing, but they would fill the space where hunger sat.
At last, she glanced over her shoulder.
Jean sat slouched on the bunk. His eyes were open now, but there was a sluggish softness to them. Sleep left traces.
“You were,” she said. Flat, certain.
Her blue gaze held him a moment longer, taking in the small disarray of him – the uneven breath, the faint crease along his cheek where the wood had pressed into skin. Always performing, even here. It must be exhausting.
The cabin smelled of damp timber, old ash, and something faintly animal. It lingered in the corners, in the seams of the walls, in the thin mattress behind her. A place used and abandoned in cycles. Temporary shelter.
“No one’s grading you here,” she added after a beat, her voice quieter now, directed at the fire. There were worse places to be. Colder ones. Her hand hovered over the heat, feeling what little it gave.
Behind her, Jean moved again. Or so she guessed by the creak of the bunk, the scuff of a boot against the floor as he tried to reassemble himself into something more presentable.
“If you’re going to rest, then rest.”
