SHE BUILT A HIDDEN BEDROOM BENEATH HER CABIN, UNTIL THE WORST BLIZZARD MADE IT HER ONLY SHELTER
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After that, everything became numbers. How many sacks of flour. How many candles. How many weeks of firewood. How much debt at the general store. How many nights the children could sleep without shivering before the shivering became sickness, and sickness became… something that didn’t have a number, something that took people away.
The cabin, on paper, was solid. Pine logs, chinked. Fireplace. Roof patched. Floorboards nailed tight. It should have held.
But the crawl space under the raised floor turned into a wind tunnel at night. The valley wind screamed beneath the cabin, stole warmth through planks the way debt steals hope: steady and impersonal. Even with the fire glowing low, water in the wash basin froze before morning. Sarah would wake to the hard shine of ice and feel a cold fear settle in her stomach like a stone.
