Under the Northern Lights(26)

I knew from experience that using the previous season as a reference wasn’t a reliable way to forecast the weather, but I appreciated the attempt to reassure me. “What do you do when you can’t . . . do anything?”

Michael scratched his scraggly beard, and I wondered if he’d let me cut it; it was long past out of control. “I read a lot. Play games—chess, cribbage, checkers . . . poker.” A short laugh escaped him. “To be perfectly honest, I’m kind of looking forward to snow days this winter. It’s going to be a lot more fun playing games against someone else for a change, although I should warn you, I can be a sore loser.”

His comment made me smile; my sister had once accused me of being petulant after she won the fifth straight game of Chutes and Ladders. To this day, I swear she cheated. “So can I,” I told him. “This should be interesting.”

Michael was smiling as he went back to cleaning dishes. As I aimlessly swept the floor, I found that a part of me was almost eager for those lazy winter days when there was nothing to do because nothing could be done. But just as the anticipation swept through me, a sobering thought cooled me. My arrival had jacked up Michael’s plan for the winter, and he’d gotten a late start in making the proper adjustments. Would he be able to do enough before the heavy storms hit?

“Do you think we’ll have enough food?” I asked, biting my lip. He’d be fine here if it weren’t for me crashing his party. I hated the thought of him starving to death because he’d saved my life. Of course, I wasn’t excited over the idea of me starving to death either. I wanted both of us to come out of this in one piece—happy and healthy.

Drying a clean dish, Michael threw on a carefree smile. A very calculated carefree smile. “Hunting has been good to me lately, so as long as that keeps up before the weather turns, we’ll be fine.”

Even though he was trying to disguise it as good news, he was basically telling me “maybe.” I tried to take solace in the fact that Michael had been living here for a while now, so he knew what it took to survive. He knew how to hunt and where to hunt—plus he had an almost superhuman amount of drive and willpower. He wouldn’t stop until we had what we needed. We would get through the next few months. We would be fine.

Months . . . a quarter of a year. It sounded so long when clumped together in a block of time like that. It made me think of everything I’d be missing. Winter meant the holidays—Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s. It was a time when you were supposed to be home, wrapped in blankets, sipping hot chocolate, and chatting with loved ones. But now . . . everyone would be worried, sad, and scared. There would be a hole in the family get-togethers this year, a hole that no amount of turkey could fill.

Thinking of my family mourning me made me tear up. Would Mom still bake? Would Dad still complain about the price of Christmas trees? And what about my dogs? Patricia had cats, so they couldn’t live with her. When it became clear that I wasn’t coming home, would someone take them in? So they weren’t alone all the time? And what about my home? My mortgage? My mail? My bills? What about . . . life? Would my family take care of everything I’d left . . . unfinished?

Not wanting to worry or cry, I slapped on a smile and asked Michael, “I don’t suppose you have any turkeys or hams in your stores? Something we could carve for Christmas?” Saying the holiday out loud made a surprising wash of sadness sweep over me, almost pulling away my forced grin.

Michael seemed to sense I was barely holding it together and looked truly apologetic. “Sorry, no . . . plenty of deer, though. And a couple rabbits. And scores of potatoes.” He grinned like that was great news. And it was. It might not be stuffing and pumpkin pie, but it was better than death.

“I guess that will have to do,” I said, my smile finally feeling genuine.

While my expression brightened, Michael’s suddenly fell. “I’m so sorry you have to miss the holidays with your family this year.” He gave me a weak half smile. “At least you’ll get to be with them next year.”

That was surprisingly comforting, but yet sad too. I’d be going back home, but Michael would be here alone. That didn’t seem right. Holidays were meant to be spent with people, not alone. “Yeah, unless I come back to visit you,” I told him, only half joking.

He gave me an odd look, like he wasn’t sure if I was serious or not, and for a second, I wasn’t sure if I was kidding. Maybe I could come see him for the holidays next year, just so he wasn’t by himself. But no . . . it wasn’t feasible to fly out here during the thick of winter. I’d crash again or worse. Holiday visits . . . just weren’t possible. And besides, my plane was a pile of scrap metal. I wouldn’t be flying anytime soon.

A strange expression crossed Michael’s face. He was smiling, but there wasn’t any joy in it. “Yeah . . . sure,” he said, and I knew he was well aware that it would never actually happen. He would be alone next Christmas; there was no getting around that.

I was just about to tell him that maybe I could visit during the summer instead, in a couple years when I had a plane again, but before I could speak, we both heard a loud clatter outside. Michael instantly snapped to his feet, his face intently focused as he listened for further sounds of trouble; he had no human neighbors to speak of, so things were generally silent here.

Fearful curiosity was killing me, and I was dying to ask him if he knew what was out there, but I didn’t want to disrupt his concentration. And it turned out I didn’t need to ask. Seconds later, I heard the deep, resonant, unmistakable growl of a bear. Shit.