I reminded him he had somehow found space for fourteen hunting tools, six spare horseshoes, and a collection of old iron hinges he refused to throw away.
He laughed so hard he nearly spilled his broth.
By the time we finished, the afternoon light had begun fading.
William pushed back his chair.
"Another bowl?"
I looked toward the pot.
"There's enough for one more generous serving."
He smiled.
"Then my wife has saved Sunday twice."
I shook my head.
"You're not eating it now."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll be asleep before supper."
He looked offended.
"I am a mountain man."
"You're a mountain man who snores after too much chicken."
He laughed.
"That is slander."
I smiled.
"That is marriage."
He carried our bowls toward the washbasin.
I gathered the spoons.
Then returned to the stove to cover the pot.
That's when I noticed something strange.
The ladle was resting on the wrong side.
I remembered leaving it beside the stove.
Now it lay across the lid.
I frowned.
"William?"
He looked over.
"Yes?"
"Did you move the ladle?"
"No."
I glanced at the pot.
Perhaps I had moved it without remembering.
That happened sometimes when I was busy cooking.
I lifted the lid.
And froze.
The broth remained.
The dumplings were still there.
But the chicken was gone.
Every single piece.
I stared.
For several seconds, I couldn't understand what I was seeing.
The pot had held enough meat for another full bowl.
I was certain.
Now there wasn't a single visible piece.
I moved the ladle through the thick broth.
Nothing.
I stirred again.
Still nothing.
My stomach tightened.
"William?"
Something in my voice made him turn immediately.
He crossed the room.
"What is it?"
I stepped aside.
He looked into the pot.
Then frowned.
"What happened?"
I swallowed.
"The chicken's gone."
He stared.
"What?"
"All of it."
He took the ladle.
Stirred the broth.
His eyebrows drew together.
"Did you take it out?"
"No."
"Put it somewhere?"
"No."
He looked toward the table.
Then the shelves.
Then back into the pot.
For a moment, we simply stared at each other.
The cabin door was locked.
The windows were closed.
Nobody had visited.
Neither of us had left the kitchen for more than a moment.
And yet an entire bowl's worth of chicken had disappeared.
William looked toward the stove.
"Could it have fallen apart in the broth?"
I shook my head.
"Not all of it."
He stirred again.
Nothing.
Then we heard it.
Three soft knocks.
Not at the door.
Not at the window.