The pistol lay across her lap.
The moment she saw his face, she said:
“Someone is hurt.”
Samuel stopped.
“How did you—”
“Your face.”
He told her.
Anna.
Thomas.
The death.
The injury.
The theft.
The hidden homestead.
Clara listened without interrupting.
When Samuel finished, she stared toward the tunnel.
“How bad is the leg?”
“Bad.”
“Smell?”
“Yes.”
“Fever?”
“Yes.”
“How awake?”
“Comes and goes.”
Clara was already moving toward the kitchen.
“Hot water.”
“Clara—”
“Clean linen.”
“Clara.”
“Salt.”
“Clara.”
She turned.
“What?”
“You cannot fit through the tunnel.”
Her face tightened.
“I know.”
He immediately regretted saying it.
But truth remained.
Clara looked toward the narrow opening.
Then toward the door.
“There is a surface path.”
“Buried.”
“Then unbury it.”
“Half a mile uphill.”
“Yes.”
“Four feet of snow.”
“Yes.”
“It could take two days.”
“Then begin.”
Samuel stared.
Clara continued:
“In the meantime, you carry supplies through the tunnel.”
“What about Thomas?”
“You describe the wound.”
“I describe badly.”
“Then learn.”
She tied her apron.
Fear had become work.
Samuel recognized that in her.
Clara’s body complicated travel.
It did not remove usefulness.
That distinction mattered more to her than Samuel could ever fully understand.
She assembled a basket small enough for the tunnel.
Bread.
Broth in a sealed pot.
Clean cloth.
Soap.
Willow bark.
Dried herbs.
Honey.
Samuel raised an eyebrow at the honey.
“For the wound?”
“For Anna.”
He smiled.
“Of course.”
Clara looked at him.
“Children who have been feeding adults need to be reminded they are children.”
Samuel stopped smiling.
“Yes.”
The first two days followed a brutal rhythm.
Samuel crawled through the tunnel.
Cleaned Thomas’s wound under Clara’s instructions.
Returned.
Described.
Clara corrected.
He returned again.
Anna began traveling between the cabins only with Samuel.
The first time she entered Clara’s kitchen openly rather than through the pantry, she stopped at the doorway.
Clara sat at the large worktable kneading dough.
Anna stared.
Not only because Clara was huge.
Because the room smelled like food.
Samuel noticed.
Clara did too.
She pretended not to.
“Come here.”
Anna approached slowly.
Clara pointed toward a stool.
“Sit.”
The child sat.
A bowl appeared before her.
Bean stew.
Cornbread.
Anna stared.
Clara returned to kneading.
“Eat.”
The girl lifted the spoon.
Then stopped.
“How much?”