“Burn more wood,” someone else said, as if trees grew in her pockets.
She burned more wood. The pile shrank. The cold did not.
By mid-November, Daniel’s cough thickened like a shadow. Emma’s fingertips turned white when she carried kindling, the tips so pale they looked like they belonged to someone else. Sarah stopped sleeping through the night. Every two hours she woke to feed the fire, afraid that if it died, the cabin would become a wooden coffin and her children would become still.
One night, as the wind rattled the shutters and the chimney made a thin moaning sound, Sarah sat on the edge of the bed and watched Daniel sleep. His little chest rose and fell unevenly, as if it had forgotten the rhythm. Emma curled tight, knees tucked, mouth pressed into her blanket.
Sarah held her breath to listen.
