Her eyes flickered.
She knew.
“You know me?”
Still nothing.
Samuel slowly placed the rifle on the floor.
Then stepped away from it.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
The girl’s mouth tightened.
Samuel looked toward a corner.
Two cabbages.
Three apples.
Potatoes.
A handful of carrots.
Root cellar food.
Enough to explain everything.
He looked back.
“You put food in our pantry.”
Her eyes filled immediately.
Not accusation.
Guilt.
Samuel softened his voice.
“Did you?”
The knife lowered half an inch.
The girl whispered:
“I gave it back.”
Samuel almost did not understand.
“What?”
“I gave it back.”
“What did you take?”
Her chin trembled.
“Bread.”
“Beans.”
“Meat.”
“How much?”
She started crying.
“Not lots.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You are.”
“No.”
She looked toward the floor.
“Papa said stealing is stealing.”
The word hit.
“Your father is here?”
The girl’s eyes widened.
Samuel continued carefully.
“What is your name?”
She hesitated.
“Anna.”
“Anna what?”
“Hale.”
Samuel felt the room tilt.
“Hale?”
She nodded.
“Your father is Thomas Hale?”
Another nod.
Samuel knew Thomas.
Or had known him.
Twelve years earlier.
Before Samuel’s mother died.
Before his father’s final winter.
Thomas had been younger, restless, angry at old Jacob Hale, always talking about leaving the mountains.
He left.
Never came back.
Rumors said he married.
Rumors said he died.
Jacob stopped talking about him entirely.
Samuel whispered:
“Where is he?”
Anna’s eyes moved toward the back room.
Samuel heard it then.
Breathing.
Wet.
Labored.
He crossed slowly.
Anna followed, knife still in hand.
Thomas Hale lay beneath three blankets.
His face was hollow.
Beard grown wild.
One leg wrapped in filthy cloth.
Samuel smelled infection before he saw it.
Thomas opened his eyes.
Recognition came slowly.
Then:
“Vale?”
Samuel knelt.
“You look terrible.”
Thomas tried to laugh.
The attempt became coughing.
“Still rude.”
“Clara says worse.”
“Who?”
“My wife.”
Thomas blinked.
“You married?”
“Years ago.”
“Missed things.”
“Yes.”
Samuel looked toward the leg.
“What happened?”
“Axe.”
“When?”
“Three weeks.”
Samuel stared.
“You have been lying here three weeks?”
Thomas closed his eyes.
“Couldn’t walk.”
Samuel turned toward Anna.
The girl looked exhausted.
Not merely hungry.
Responsible.
A child doing an adult’s work because nobody else existed.
Samuel’s anger rose.
Not at her.
At Thomas.
“What in hell were you thinking?”
Thomas opened his eyes.