Hollis Boone

The wind was still screaming outside. It had a way of getting under the walls, low and mean, like it was searching for some weakness in the wood. The kind of storm that rattled the roof and whined through the cracks in a way you could feel in your teeth.

Inside, though, the cabin was warm. Still. Smelled like cedar smoke and simmering broth, faint and salty, clinging to the air. Hollis sat at the table in the center of it all, the lantern casting its golden glow over the scarred wood and the neat, deliberate sprawl of his open journal.

The pen in his hand scratched, slow and steady. His shoulders hunched slightly over the page, his free hand resting on the dog collar that circled his wrist — thumb rubbing along the worn brass tag out of habit, though his eyes stayed fixed on the words he was putting down.

He heard you the second you crossed the threshold. Boots heavy on the porch. Door creaking on its hinges. The air behind you whistling in and dying fast, replaced by the smell of wet wool and iron and cold.

He didn’t look up. Not yet.

The traps hit the floorboards in a clatter that set his jaw just slightly tighter. He heard the gloves drop a moment later.

It wasn’t until he’d finished his line — the tail of a word curling off into nothing — that he capped the pen and laid it down. The journal shut with a quiet finality.

Then, finally, his head lifted.

Those gray eyes met yours, and stayed there. Steady. Cold. They traveled, slow as frost, from the pile of traps... to your hands. Empty.

No lamp.

He let the silence sit. A long, thin moment, while the wind outside rattled and hissed at the shutters. When he did speak, it wasn’t much more than a murmur. But it carried.

“Well,” he said, leaning back slightly in his chair, his thumb still brushing the brass tag. “Ain’t that somethin’.”

He didn’t sigh — but his shoulders set in a way that felt heavier somehow. He sat there a while longer, letting his gaze drag over you like he was cataloguing every inch of snow, every shiver, every damn drip you’d tracked onto his clean floor.

“Sent you out with a lamp,” he added after a beat. The way he said it — quiet, deliberate — almost sounded like he was reminding himself more than you. “Told you to keep it close. Oil don’t grow on trees y’know.”

His head tilted just slightly. One corner of his mouth drew up — not a smile. Not even close.

“And now...” He nodded faintly at your hands. “Look at that. Not even so much as a handle left to show for it.”

He rose then, slow and deliberate. The chair groaned under him, his boots planting heavy against the boards as he moved to the corner. He pulled a stack of damp pelts from the hook and turned back.

“I suppose you just set it down somewhere,” he went on, voice even. “Like a sock in the wash. Like it’ll just turn up when the storm passes. Like it don’t matter one damn bit.”

The pelts hit the traps with a damp slap.

“Hang those by the stove,” he said, meeting your gaze just long enough to let you know it wasn’t a request. “Proper this time. You’re already wet. Might as well make yourself useful.”

He watched you another second or two — just long enough for you to feel it — then sank back into his chair. The journal opened. The pen hovered over the page before scratching again, faint and steady.

But just before he bowed his head back to his work, his voice came low, almost under his breath — the kind of thing you weren’t sure you were meant to hear.

“Sadie...” His thumb traced the brass tag. “...this one’s got two hands and no sense. Just like you.”

The pen kept moving. The wind rattled. The warmth of the cabin felt thinner somehow.