"If the roof comes off, wake me."
He stared.
Then laughed.
A real laugh.
Deep enough to fill the cabin.
Eleanor smiled.
"Good night."
"Good night."
She locked the bedroom door.
Then stood staring at the lock.
After several seconds, she unlocked it.
Caleb never knew.
Not then.
Morning did not bring sunlight.
The storm continued.
Snow rose halfway up the window.
Caleb had already cleared the chimney twice by the time Eleanor woke.
She found him outside under the porch roof, shirt buttoned fully, shoveling snow away from the door.
He saw her through the glass.
Immediately stopped.
The old awkwardness returned.
Eleanor opened the door.
Wind threw snow into the cabin.
"Get inside."
"I need to keep the path—"
"You've got snow in your beard."
"That happens."
"Inside."
Caleb obeyed.
Mostly because Eleanor looked capable of dragging him.
She handed him a towel.
He sat.
Neither mentioned the previous night.
Not at first.
Eleanor made coffee.
Caleb watched.
"That's too much."
"What?"
"Coffee."
She looked at the pot.
"It's normal."
"For six people."
"Then we are prepared for visitors."
"In this storm?"
"You never know."
Caleb smiled.
Eleanor poured.
He tasted.
His eyes widened.
"Bad?"
"No."
"What?"
"Good."
Eleanor frowned.
"Why do you sound offended?"
"My father made coffee by boiling it until it surrendered."
"That explains several things."
Caleb laughed again.
Eleanor liked making him laugh.
The realization frightened her.
Henry's laughter had usually preceded humiliation.
Caleb's laughter seemed to open rather than close a room.
They spent the morning repairing gaps around the windows.
By noon, snow covered the lower half of the front door.
By afternoon, one of the roof beams began leaking.
Caleb climbed into the loft.
Eleanor held the lantern.
"Careful."
"I've done this before."
"That statement generally comes before accidents."
Caleb looked down.
"You worry."
"I observe."
"You worry."
"Fix the roof."
He smiled.
An hour later, the leak stopped.
Then Caleb gripped the edge of the loft.
His face changed.
Eleanor saw.
"Caleb?"
"I'm fine."
The worst sentence in any language.
He climbed down slowly.
Too slowly.
One hand pressed against his chest.
Eleanor moved toward him.
"The scar?"
"Cold."
"Sit."
"I'm fine."
"Sit."
He sat.
Eleanor opened the top buttons before asking, then stopped.
"May I?"
Caleb nodded.
The scar looked darker.
Not injured.
But the tissue beneath it contracted more visibly.
Caleb's jaw tightened.
"Pain?"
"Yes."
"How bad?"
He did not answer.
"Caleb."
"Seven."
"Out of?"
"Ten."
Eleanor stared.
"Why were you on the roof?"
"It needed fixing."
"You could have told me."
"What would you have done?"
"Not let the man with chest pain crawl above the ceiling."