Outside my cabin the snow falls in a heavy, opaque curtain. The house vibrates with silence, with a creeping finality of being sealed inside. An unwanted thought pops into my head—my cabin as a little tomb. The warm wood paneling. The plush, comfy furniture. The ease with which I can lock myself in and nothing else. Those little touches that give it that cabin-y feel. Right now, they remind me of a coffin.

Upstairs, I change out of the clothes I wore to work. Then I search my bookshelves, overflowing with my favorite stories, for the threadbare paperback with the orange binding.

I find the book easily—at eye level along the edge of the bookcase—carry it downstairs with me, and set it near the sofa. I check the log holder next to my fireplace. It’s about half full. I chew on my lip, wondering how long the sixteen or so logs will last me if the electricity goes out. I decide better to be safe than sorry and grab my boots from the front closet. I lace my feet into them before unlocking the bolt and stepping out behind the house. My eyes prickle at the cold. I make my way to the spare firewood rack that Jonathan always keeps full, uncover it, and pile as many logs as I can carry in my arms. I take them back inside and place them into the log holder beside the fireplace and then make one more trip, remembering to cover the rack back up with the tarp. Once the log holder is nearly full, I lock the back door with numb fingers, and I look for the matches.

I keep them on the mantel above the fireplace in a long, painted wooden box. It was a gift from my friend, Kacey. She made it for me in a woodworking class in school. She painted it a deep red, with a white teardrop-shaped border and a delicate pink, white, and green floral design adorned with tiny, iridescent pearls. While her craftsmanship is lacking, it’s beautiful, and she made it for me.

That was back when I used to see Kacey nearly every day. Back when I knew everything that was going on in her life. Back when she knew everything going on in mine. Back when I used to answer her calls and not just listen to her messages. I flip the small box over in my hands and run my fingertips over the name shallowly carved into the wood—Elisabeth.

“I’m Kacey. What’s your name?” a rail-thin girl with big gray eyes and cascading black hair asked. She had just moved to the Chicago area and was new to school.

“Justine,” I replied.

She pulled a red Ring Pop from the pocket of her jeans and shoved it into her mouth. We weren’t supposed to have candy in class. “Hmm. You don’t look like a Justine. Do you feel like a Justine?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said shyly. I’d never thought about it before.

We caught sight of the teacher making his way around the corner. Kacey turned her back to him—she’d only been there a few days, but she knew the rules. Quickly she stuffed the saliva-slick candy back into her pocket.

My eyes grew wide. I loved that.

“What’s your middle name?” she asked.

“It’s Elisabeth,” I said.

“Of course,” she said, her now-bright ruby lips stretched tightly across her face. “I’m going to call you Elisabeth. That’s who you really are.”


Up until eight months ago, Kacey had been the only one to ever call me that.

After removing a match, I place the box back on the mantel. At the time she made it, this wasn’t what it was for. She told me it was a jewelry box. We didn’t know then where I’d be now.

Using the fire poker, I rearrange the logs in the fireplace. I add two fresh logs to the top. Once I have the fire going, I cross my legs and sit before the hearth. I listen to the almost imperceptible exhale of the warming air, the crackling of the wood, the fluttering of the embers. I feel a blush rise on my face and the cold fade from my fingers. I sit there, quietly. Peacefully. Comfortably. I sit there knowing that I am where I’m meant to be.

I stare into the fire for a long while. I watch the flames go from orange to blue and then orange again. The sweetness of the burning wood stings my nostrils. Eventually, sweat begins to form beneath my hoodie, and I push myself up and head to the kitchen to make myself some pasta and vegetables for dinner.

I stand at the counter of my mint-green tiled kitchen, stirring occasionally, waiting for my food to cook. I glide my fingers over the buttons on the answering machine, pause momentarily, and press down. “Hey, Elisabeth,” Kacey begins, but I stop it right there. I don’t want to hear what she has to say. I know what she has to say. I just wanted to hear her voice. I turn my attention to the window, the faintest outline of the forest canopy sawtoothed against the last light of day. Like a mountain on fire far in the distance. I wait for it every evening.

I wonder if I’ll ever talk to Kacey again.

I wonder what the sheriff’s doing next door.

I sit down at the table. It’s not like me to wonder these things.

After I’ve eaten, I make myself a large cup of peppermint tea before turning off the lights in the kitchen. I carry the tea to the sofa, where I tuck my legs beneath me and cover them with the old moss-colored afghan that hangs off the back of the couch.

I sip my tea. I open my book. Time slips away from me.

The storm is outside. I am inside. I am fine.

• • •

The house groans with the weight of the storm. I look up to watch the shadows cut across the ceiling. Branches like long skinny arms detached from their bodies reaching over me. They drape me with a blanket, warm like toast right out of the toaster and just as stiff.

Are you comfortable?

Are you crying?

Can you please count backward from ten?