Page 18 of Challenged By the Mountain Man

"I may have improvised a little."

Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. "Yeah. I can tell."

I clear out the old ash and half-burned wood, then reach for the kindling I can see piled in a box beside the stove. "You need three things for a good fire. Tinder, kindling, and fuel. Tinder gets it started. Dry leaves, paper, whatever catches easily. Kindling keeps it going. Small sticks, dry twigs. Fuel is your actual firewood, the stuff that burns long and hot."

She crouches down beside me, watching closely. I can smell her shampoo, strawberry and completely out of place up here, and I try not to notice how close she is.

"You build it in layers," I continue, arranging the tinder in the center of the stove. "Tinder first, then kindling over it in a teepee shape. Leave room for air to flow. Fire needs oxygen. Then your fuel wood on top, not too much at first. You want it to catch before you add the big pieces."

I strike a match, and it catches immediately, small flames licking up through the kindling. I wait until it's going strong, then add two medium-sized pieces of the wood I brought.

"See? Give it a few minutes and it'll be putting out real heat."

She's silent for a moment, just watching the fire build. Then she says, "You're good at this."

"I've had practice."

"Teaching people, I mean. You're patient."

I glance at her, surprised. Patient isn't a word anyone's used to describe me in a long time. "I don't want you to freeze to death half a mile from my cabin. Bad for property values."

"There it is." But she's smiling a little.

I stand up, brushing ash off my hands. "Keep feeding it every couple hours. Don't let it die completely or you'll have to start over. And don't smother it. If you pile too much wood on at once, you'll choke it out."

"Got it."

We stand there for a moment, the fire crackling between us, and I realize I've run out of reasons to stay. The wood's stacked. The fire's built. The generator's running. She's set.

I should go.

"You want some coffee?" she asks suddenly. "I just made a pot."

I should say no. Should head back to my cabin and let her have her space. That's what I came up here for—space. Distance. The chance to not have to be around people who ask questions or look at me like I'm something broken they want to fix.

"Yeah," I hear myself say. "Coffee sounds good."

She pours two mugs. Mismatched, one with a chipped handle, and hands me one. It's strong, bitter, the way I like it. We sit at the small table, Bear settling at my feet with a contented sigh.

"So," Hannah says after a moment. "Eight years up here. You ever get lonely?"

"No."

"Ever?"

"I've got Bear."

"Bear doesn't count."

"Why not?"

"Because he's a dog."

"He's better company than most people."

She laughs, and the sound is unexpected. Genuine. It fills the small cabin in a way that makes the space feel less empty.

"Fair enough," she says. "But still. Eight years. No people. That's... a long time."