“Good. Pain means they’re alive.”
He rekindled the stove. The woodpile had dwindled to half a cubic meter. Four weeks’ worth of fuel at its normal rate, perhaps two at the rate it was burning that night. But Thomas Arnison was alive, and outside, in the howling darkness, the storm continued to rage.
January 10th was even worse. The wind died down in the early morning hours, and in its absence, the cold intensified. With no wind to stir the air, the temperature plummeted. By dawn, another gray, sunless dawn, the mercury in Ingrid’s thermometer had not budged from its bulb. It was 50 degrees below zero. Maybe even 60. There was no way to know.
Ingred’s cabin maintained a temperature of 18 degrees inside. 18 degrees below zero, but barely. Cold enough to make her breath condense, to make ice form on the edges of the window, to make her feel the chill pressing through the woolen walls like a living weight, but not cold enough to kill. Not cold enough to freeze water or blood, or the man lying wrapped in blankets beside her stove.
She burned wood. She had no choice. A quarter of a cord on January 10th alone, more than she had expected to burn in a week. But the alternative was death, and Ingred hadn’t come this far to die now.
Thomas Arnison’s hands survived. His feet survived. The frostbite was severe. Three fingers on his left hand would never fully heal, and two toes on his right foot would turn black and eventually require amputation. But he would survive.
He stayed in Ingred’s cabin for five days, until the temperature rose to just 20 degrees below zero and he was able to travel to White Sulphur Springs for medical attention. Before leaving, he paused in the doorway and took one last look at the wool-covered walls.
“How did you know?” he asked. “How did you know it would work?”
“No,” Ingrid said. “I was hoping so.”
Thomas nodded slowly. “I’ll rebuild my barn. This time I’ll re-line the walls, if you show me how.”
“With wool.”
“With wool.”
Ingred explained everything step by step: the necessary thickness, the method of fastening, the importance of using unwashed wool with the lanolin intact. Thomas listened, asked questions, and repeated the specifications until he had them memorized.
When he finally left, walking slowly through the snow toward town, Ingred watched him until he disappeared behind the first hill. Then he returned to his cabin, his sheep, and his dwindling woodpile.
She had 3/8 of a rope left, perhaps 5 or 6 weeks’ fuel if she was careful. Winter had 7 weeks left to run.
The math was still against her, but the worst was over. She could feel it.
What she didn’t know was that the worst wasn’t over yet. Not entirely.
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