There was no silence in the cabin, even at night. The wind was like a wild song that pushed away the quiet.
The power had gone off and on, off and on many times.
We cooked up many things from the freezer to be heated in the fireplace later. We stored the cooked food in coolers outside in the snow.
Today Flora cooked soup on the stove, stirring as she read a book.
“This is you, Teddy,” she called to me.
When I walked over to the stove, I saw she was reading a book on Irish wolfhound dogs. A tall dog like me was on the cover.
“You’re much better looking, I must say,” said Flora.
If I could smile I would have.
“Did you know that your ancestors were warriors?” she said, peering over the book at me.
“So Sylvan told me,” I said.
“Your great-grandfather or grandmother may have pulled soldiers off horses with their teeth,” said Flora.
“I myself have never done that,” I said, making Nickel laugh.
“It says here you have a kindly disposition,” said Flora.
“Does it say he’s a best friend?” asked Nickel, tossing more wood on the fire.
Flora lowered the book and stirred the soup, tossing in some herbs from a small jar.
“Yes,” she announced. “It does. And often the Irish wolfhound loves children and cats.”
“I have met a cat or two that I liked,” I said.
“We have a cat at home,” said Flora.
“Is it a spitter?” I asked.
Flora gave me an insulted look.
“She is not a spitter.”
A sudden sweep of wind sent snow against the cabin. Outside a limb fell. We all looked up.
“This is lasting a long time,” said Nickel. “The batteries for the weather box are getting low, and I don’t know how to charge them. But the storm is expected to last for a few more days.”
“Good,” said Flora. “I like it here.”
“I like it here, too,” said Nickel. “As long as there’s wood to burn and food to eat.”
He paused.
“And as long as Mom and Dad aren’t worried.”
“Remember, I wrote a note,” said Flora.
“There’s wood in the shed,” I said.
“If we can get there,” said Nickel.
“And food in the pantry,” said Flora.
“I like it here, too,” I said suddenly. “I do.”
Sylvan types on his computer, sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning and muttering to himself.
I sit up on the red rug and yawn my yawn that ends with a squeak.
He looks over at me.
“Being a writer is not easy, you know. It is, now that I think of it, either full of sorrow or full of joy.”
“Like being a dog,” I say.
Sylvan turns in his chair and peers at me.
“I should take my own advice to Ellie and write about what I love.”
Sylvan pauses.
“I will write about you.”
“The way Ellie wrote about her cat?” I ask.
“Yes,” says Sylvan.
He turns back to his computer and writes furiously.
“Ellie is a poet, you know,” he says. “At long last. The next time she sees you, she’ll hear you speak.”
“I know,” I say, yawning.
The peal of laughter from Sylvan fills the room. After a moment he laughs more at what he’s writing. He coughs a bit at the same time. He has a bottle of medicine and a spoon on his desk. He pours some into the spoon. His cheeks are a little flushed.
After a few minutes he gets up, closes the cover on his computer, and lies down on the couch.
The cough stays with him through the night.
It is the beginning of Sylvan getting sick.