Lamb

In the morning the sky was bright as polished silver. Snow covered Lamb’s boots and piled up to his ankles. To the north the clouds ended, a bright blue line of daylight searing as if just beneath the cloud cover—a trick of distance.

He stooped in his boots at the end of the drive, near the fence, and checked around him. There was no one watching, was there? No one who could see and remember this or report any of it, and he vomited into the snow. When he stood he kicked snow over it and went out to the street.

He checked the snow for Foster’s footprints, but most of the snow had fallen after midnight. Alone in his heavy sheepskin jacket he shaved at the river, rinsed his mouth with the ice-cold water, then moved inside where he tidied the cabin and the shop, cleared it of her dirty socks, a hair rubberband, the little yellow sweater. He brought everything from the car that would not be his and stacked it all in the bunk room and stood and watched her sleeping. He returned to the cabin and brought out ratty towels and set them with the duct tape in the bunk room for extra window insulation.

“Are you packing?” The girl sat, cheeks flushed with sleep.

“No, dear. I’m just tidying up for the guests.”

“What guests?”

“Shouldn’t we have some? A dinner party around the fire?”

“You’re insane.”

“Ssh.” He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled a hat over her head. “I haven’t built a fire yet. It’s cold. You look beautiful all drowsy and with your faced mushed with sleep.”

“Did it snow?”

“Did it ever. It’ll be gone by lunch.”

“Oh.”

“You want to go out and see?” He put his face into her hair. It smelled the way it does when it’s cold outside—when there’s snow. Metallic, fibrous. “Are you warm?” He held her face in his hands. “You see me now, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You know me, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“I’m not embarrassed.”

She shook her head. “Me either.”

“I really like you.”

“I like you too.”

“We’re lucky aren’t we?”

Nod.

“Equal partners, right?”