— Morning, Drew, — she chirped sleepily.
They ate together; the oatmeal was thick and warm. Cassie ate slowly, talking about school and a girl named Sarah from down the road who got new red boots. Drew nodded, listening with half an ear, his mind on the woodpile.
He dropped his sister off at the elementary school by eight and stayed for his own classes until three. The day went by in a blur: algebra, English, history. He took notes and answered when called on, but his thoughts were at home. Wood needed cutting. The fence needed fixing. The winter was coming on hard.
At three, he picked Cassie up from her first-grade classroom. She ran out holding a drawing: a house, a tree, and a bright yellow sun.
— Look, Drew. It’s our house, — she said proudly.
— Looks great, — Drew took her hand. — Good job.
They walked home along the rural road. The snow crunched under their boots; it was cold, maybe fifteen degrees. Cassie shivered.
— It was freezing in class today. The heater was making a weird noise, — she complained.
— Again? — Drew frowned.
— Yeah. Mrs. Gable said the boiler is acting up. We had to keep our coats on.
— I kept mine on, — Cassie showed him her fingers. — Но my hands still got cold. It was hard to write.
Drew squeezed her hand in his—it was like ice.
— Cassie, your toes are almost poking through those boots, — he noticed, looking down.
— I know, — the girl shrugged. — Sarah got new ones. Red and shiny. When can I get new ones?
— Soon, — Drew lied. — Mom’s getting a bonus soon, we’ll get them then.
— Really? — Cassie’s eyes lit up.
— Really, — he nodded, though he knew it was a stretch. Where would a bonus come from? His mother was barely keeping the lights on.
Back at the house, Drew went straight to the wood bin. Five logs left. Maybe enough for one evening. He stood there, looking at the empty space, and felt a tightening in his chest. His mother worked twelve-hour shifts. Cassie was freezing at school. And he, the man of the house, couldn’t even keep the woodpile stocked.
— Drew, what are we going to do? — Cassie asked, coming up behind him.
— I’m heading into the woods, — he replied, straightening up. — Right now. I’ll do the chores first.
Drew threw on his father’s old work jacket—it was worn and patched, but warm—and headed to the shed. He finished the outdoor chores quickly, checking the animals and the fence. The repair could wait until tomorrow. Right now, they needed heat.
Inside, Cassie was huddled by the stove.
— Cassie, I’ll be back in an hour. I’m just going to the edge of the property, — Drew said, pulling on his boots. — Stay inside, okay? And don’t mess with the stove.
— Can I come with you? — she asked, looking up.
— No, it’s getting dark. I need you to stay here.
Drew put on his winter hat and grabbed his axe.
— Drew, you’re coming back, right? — Cassie looked worried.
— Of course I am, kiddo, — he patted her head. — Just an hour. Draw me another picture while I’m gone.
He pulled the old wooden sled out of the shed—his dad had built it years ago. He tied the axe to the side and checked the tow rope. As he left the yard, Drew looked back at their small, weathered farmhouse. It was one of about twenty homes scattered along this stretch of the valley.
Drew trekked toward the tree line, pulling the sled. The snow was deep. The wind nipped at his neck and stung his cheeks. He thought about his father, suddenly and vividly. His dad had been twenty-nine when he died in a motorcycle accident. Drew had been six. They used to go for wood together; his dad had started teaching him the ropes.
— Take care of the place, son, — his dad used to say, showing him how to swing the axe. — A man looks after his home. He takes care of his family. No complaining, no quitting. Got it?
— Got it, Dad, — little Drew would answer with a serious nod.
Four months after Cassie was born, his dad was gone. A patch of gravel on a sharp turn. Instant.
Drew followed the trail into the woods. He thought about his mother—how thin she’d gotten, the gray in her hair. She was only thirty-nine. She was burning out. He thought about Cassie’s boots and the cold classroom. He thought about himself—his dream of going to flight school seemed like a fantasy. Flying jets, seeing the world. It was a joke. Where would the tuition come from? Where?
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