she asked.
Jedediah shrugged.
“Old one was splitting.”
“That's all?”
He looked away.
“No.”
Meadow waited.
Jedediah took a breath.
“I watched you stand up like the chair accused you of something.”
Her eyes burned.
He continued.
“I've spent months learning what it feels like when the world gets built for somebody else's body.”
Meadow could not speak.
Jedediah looked toward his cart.
“Doorways.”
“Steps.”
Tables too high.
Ground too soft.
“Saddle made for legs that work.”
He looked back.
“You've been doing your version longer.”
Meadow swallowed.
“Finish it.”
He did.
When she first sat in the chair, she lowered herself cautiously.
Nothing moved.
She shifted.
Nothing creaked.
She leaned back.
Solid.
Jedediah pretended to inspect a tool.
Meadow ran one hand across the armrest.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
That evening she gave him the thickest slice of ham.
He cut it in half and put the best piece back on her plate.
That was how they courted before either admitted they were courting.
Food.
Tools.
Blankets.
Small accommodations.
One morning Jedediah woke to find she had sewn leather padding for the cart.
He said nothing.
That night Meadow found he had repaired the drawer that caught every time she opened it.
She said nothing.
Neither was fooled.
Winter arrived hard.
Snow covered the northern field.
Wind found every crack in the cabin walls.
Jedediah spent more time inside because the cart wheels struggled through drifts.
He built iron brackets.
Then runners.
Meadow called it his winter throne.
He called her impossible.
They talked more.
That was dangerous.
About Samuel.
About Jedediah's accident.
About loneliness.
Jedediah had never married.
“Why?” Meadow asked one night.
“Moved too much.”
“That stops men?”
“Stopped me.”
“Women wanted you?”
He looked at her.
“I wasn't hideous.”
“You're very modest.”
He smiled.
“Some wanted me.”
“Then?”
“I liked mountains.”
“More than women?”
“Mountains didn't ask where I'd be in spring.”
Meadow laughed.
“What changed?”
Jedediah looked toward the fire.
“Tree.”
The laughter faded.
He continued.
“After it fell, people came three days.”
“Then two.”
“Then nobody.”
“Men I trapped with avoided looking at me.”
“Women who used to smile acted like I had died but forgot to stop breathing.”
Meadow stared at the fire.
“I know that look.”
“After Samuel?”
“Before.”
Jedediah looked toward her.
Meadow smiled without humor.
“People think loneliness belongs to the unmarried.”
“Sometimes you're lonely in crowds.”
Jedediah watched.
“Were you lonely with him?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Jedediah nodded.
Meadow continued.
“Samuel was good.”
“Not perfect.”
“Good.”
“He liked me.”
Jedediah said, “Loved you.”
“Yes.”
Meadow looked down.