Page 96 of Big Dill

A medical chopper.

My stomach tightens. The clinic here is small—good for stitches, fevers, every day ailments. Anything worse gets flown out to Labrador City. I stand a moment longer than necessary, watching until it disappears.

I hurry inside, and heat wraps around me, the scent of wood smoke thick and comforting. Jami stands in front of the fire, rubbing her hands together, her back to me.

“Frank find another herd of caribou?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.

I shake my head. “No. Medical chopper.”

Her smile fades, concern pulling her lips down. “Oh.” She hesitates. “I guess I never really thought about medical care here.” She turns fully toward me. “I hope whoever it is, they’re okay. Should we call my brother? Or your ma?”

I grab my phone off the counter and check, already knowing. “No signal,” I say. “I’m sure they’ve got it handled.”

“If you’re sure,” she says, though the worry lingers in her eyes.

I get out of my winter wear as she sinks onto the couch, stretching out with a soft sigh, firelight dancing across her face. I grab another armful of wood and feed the fire, watching the flames catch.

“I could use another nap,” she murmurs, her lids heavy.

“Relaxing,” I say. “That’s what the cottage is all about.”

She points to the sign above the fire. “That’s true. Life is better at the cottage.”

I glance over at her, cozy and content, snow still clinging to the cuffs of her pants. “Go ahead,” I say. “I can get started on dinner.”

“No,” she whines, dragging the word out in a way that makes it impossible not to smile. “Nap with me. Then we’ll cook together.” I hold out my hand. When she takes it, I tug her up off the couch. “Think we could sleep in the double bed?” she asks.

“No.”

She tilts her head, studying me. “No?”

“My childhood bed,” I murmur. “You and me. There’s just… something really nice about that.”

She considers it for half a second. “Fine. But don’t hog it.”

I give her backside a quick slap and she yelps, darting toward the room. The old bed springs squeak in protest as she jumps in and burrows under the covers. She lifts them for me, and I slide in beside her, tugging her close until she fits perfectly against me, like this is where she belongs.

“This is nice,” she murmurs, settling her head on my chest.

I brush a few strands of hair off her cheek, my thumb lingering there. A yawn sneaks up on me. “Yeah,” I say.

The room goes quiet, filled only with the steady sound of our breathing, the faint pop of the fire in the other room. Sleep comes easy, the kind that sinks deep and warm.

When I wake, the room is dark, lit only by the soft glow spilling in from the living room. I don’t know how long we’ve been out—my phone’s still out there somewhere. I shift carefully, trying not to wake her.

“How long did we sleep?” she whispers, already awake.

“Not sure,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She makes a small sound and stretches, slow and lazy. “We’re never going to sleep tonight.”

I smile as I sit up. “I wasn’t planning on it,” I joke. “I should check the fire.”

“I’m coming.” She kicks the blankets aside, and I take her hand, still warm from sleep.

In the living room, I kneel and tend to the fire, coaxing it back to life.

“It’s seven,” she says, her phone casting a soft glow over her face. “Want me to start dinner?”