Winterwood

I scrape a match against the edge of the stove, and it sparks to life—the brightest thing in the house—then I wait for the flame to catch on the small twigs scattered across the bottom of the stove. The glow of the fire soon spreads over the larger logs and I close the door, letting the heat build inside.

“He stayed here last night?” she asks.

I stand up and cross into the kitchen, feeling on edge—I don’t want to talk about this, about him. “He didn’t have anywhere else to go,” I say. Or it was all just a game, I think. A stupid prank, and I fell for it. A dare from the other boys, who have never seen the inside of my house. Maybe they dared him to steal one of the lost items while I slept, but when I do a quick survey of the living room, nothing seems to be missing.

Something else is going on that I don’t understand.

But Suzy’s grin is so wide that even her ears raise up slightly. “Why doesn’t he want to stay at the camp?” she asks.

“I’m not sure.” Of anything.

“He probably just wants to stay here with you,” she suggests through the broad row of her grinning teeth.

I shake my head—“I doubt it”— and pull down the box of oatmeal from the cupboard.

“Wait.” Suzy sits up straighter. “Does he know what happened to the kid who died?”

My fingers touch the edge of the counter, feeling the cold tile, the divot where I once dropped a glass honey jar and chipped the surface. Glass shattered and honey dripped everywhere. Mom was furious, but Grandma only cooed and sang a song about honey making the house smell sugary sweet. I think she made it up on the spot to make me feel better.

“He said he doesn’t,” I answer, remembering the stunned look that spread across Oliver’s face when I told him. But maybe I misread everything in his cool-green eyes. Maybe I’m foolish to think anything he’s told me is the truth.

“It was probably just an accident anyway,” Suzy adds, sinking back into the couch cushions, suddenly bored again.

I release my fingers from the counter. “What do you mean?”

She draws her lips to one side, thinking. “That kid who died, he probably just fell from a tree or froze to death during some wilderness exercise.”

“Maybe,” I answer. “But if it was an accident, why is it such a secret? Why didn’t the camp counselors tell everyone what happened?”

“Who knows. Maybe they wanted to call the boy’s parents first. Or they didn’t want to scare anyone until the police came. I don’t know how this stuff works.” Again, her tone seems callous. As if she doesn’t want to be bothered with my questions.

But her expression drops and I realize it’s not that. It unsettles her to talk about it. She’s pretending it’s no big deal so that it won’t be. So she doesn’t have to think about being trapped up here, in these unforgiving mountains, with someone who may have killed that boy.

“Can we not talk about it?” she adds, and I know that I’m right. She’s afraid. And maybe she should be—maybe we should both be terrified.

“Sure,” I agree.

But it doesn’t mean I’ll stop thinking about it. That the thin, acrid feeling isn’t carving a gaping hole inside me. That I don’t feel restless and edgy, and that I won’t double-check the locks tonight before we go to sleep.

“I’m not even supposed to be here,” Suzy murmurs, her voice almost a whimper. Like she’s holding back tears.

The cabin roof creaks and moans as the wind outside picks up.

“The road will thaw eventually,” I say, a tiny offering of hope. But with winter now settled firmly over the mountains, it could take another month, maybe more. Storms have been rolling in over the lake daily, snow piling up on roofs and driveways and the only road down the mountain. We’re trapped. Hemmed in. Captive.

Suzy runs her fingers through her long, wavy hair, pulling against her scalp, and tucks her forehead against her knees, like she’s a little girl playing hide-and-seek. If she can’t see the darkness, then it can’t see her.

She doesn’t belong here.

“I can’t wait to leave this place,” she says, lifting her head to look out the window. I wonder if she means Jackjaw Lake, or Fir Haven—where she lives. If she wants to leave completely, escape this wild part of the country. “I hate the cold, these mountains, all of it. As soon as I graduate, I’m gone. I’ve been saving up.” She flashes me a look, like she’s divulging her deepest secret. “My parents don’t know. But I refuse to end up like everyone else who gets stuck here.”

I’ve heard it before, the desperation, the plotting to escape—it’s common at Fir Haven High, especially from the seniors as the months tick down to graduation. They talk of moving out east, or down to California where it never snows, or overseas, as far away as they can get. Yet, the truth is, most will stay. They get jobs working at the lumberyard or one of the nearby Christmas tree farms that dot the valley. They get stuck. They forget about the dreams they had to travel far, far away from here.

I should tell her that I believe her, but I’m not sure that I do.