Chapter 1
Three months in Northland, and my landlord, Mark Evans, and his family were always polite, but they kept their distance, never saying more than a few words to me.
That rainy day, I noticed the firewood in the yard was soaked right through.
Knowing winter was just around the corner, I went ahead and carried it all into the hearth room to let it dry out.
By morning, Mark's wife, Ellie Evans, stood at my door, eyes red-rimmed.
Her voice trembling, she said, "You saved our whole family."
Then she turned to the others and exclaimed, "This man has magic. He brings wet wood back to life."
Before I knew what was happening, a long line had already formed outside the door.
Five hundred Northlanders waited, each holding rain-heavy timber.
*****
I was Michael Lewis, a carpenter by trade.
Three months ago, I trailed a construction crew into Northland.
When the crew I arrived with headed home after the job wrapped, I stayed behind.
Work was scarce here, but the wages were high. More importantly, it was quiet.
I rented a small cabin in Cedarville from a local family, the Evanses.
There was Mark Evans, his wife Ellie Evans, and their five-year-old daughter, Anna Evans.
The whole family was always polite.
Whenever we ran into each other, they'd nod, smile, and say, "Moi."
That was Northland for "hello."
But that was about it—no small talk, no chit-chat.
They kept to the main house; I had the guest cabin.
We shared the yard.
Every day, I'd head out for work, and when I got back, I'd just hang out in my cabin.
That kind of space between us was perfect for me.
Autumn here was a fleeting thing.
By late September, the first snow had already fallen, melting on impact, followed by a solid week of leaden skies and endless rain.
The air grew heavy, reeking of wet earth and damp timber.
I clocked out early one afternoon to find Mark standing in the yard.
A small mountain of firewood sat before him.
That was their supply for the winter.
He was chain-smoking, staring at the logs with a look of utter defeat.
His brows were furrowed into a tight, hard crease.
I walked over. "Moi."
He glanced back, returning the greeting absently, eyes drifting back to the wet pile.
I reached out and tugged a log from the stack.
It was heavy, ice-cold, and dripping wet.
"Fresh delivery?" I asked.
He nodded, speaking with a halting, unpolished cadence. "Yeah, Tom Woods brought it over."
"It's all wet," I said.
He nodded again, tossed his cigarette to the ground, and crushed it under his boot.
"Yeah, every single piece," he replied.
The despair in his voice was palpable.
I understood the stakes.
In Northland, wet wood meant no heat.
With nights plummeting to forty below, that wasn't just uncomfortable. It was lethal.
Green wood was nearly impossible to light, and even if one somehow got it burning, all one got were billows of smoke.
Not only did it fail to heat the house, but it also covered everything in soot and filled the whole place with smoke.
Ellie stepped out of the main house then, draping a coat over Mark's shoulders.
She looked worn out, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy from crying.
She forced a strained smile when she saw me.
Little Anna trailed behind, her golden hair dull in the gray light.
The little girl hugged her rag doll, just silently watching her mom and dad.
The whole family seemed wrapped in a suffocating gloom.
I set the log back down.
"Maybe it'll dry out in a few days," I said to Mark, trying to sound reassuring.
Mark shook his head. "We won't be ready in time. The blizzard's coming next week."
With that, he ushered his family inside, leaving me alone in the damp yard with the useless pile.
I stood there for a moment before retreating to my cabin.
I lit my own hearth, listening to the dry wood snap and hiss, letting the warmth seep into my bones.
Yet, the image of Mark's despair and little Anna's silent watch lingered.
As a carpenter, I knew wood better than anyone.
I knew that with the core soaked through, even if one left it out for a month in Northland's cold and damp, it'd still be just as wet.
After dinner, watching the rain streak against the glass, I sighed.
The lights in the main house were dim; I figured every member of the family was feeling pretty low.
I pulled on my raincoat and stepped back out.
Beside the main house stands an old smokehouse, a relic from when they cured meat and baked bread.
Now, it was mostly storage, but it had a massive brick fireplace.
I tracked Mark down and asked for the key to the smokehouse, though he couldn't hide his confusion.
He asked, "What for?"
I said, "Maybe I've got a way."
He didn't press. The key was in my hand the next second.
Inside, the room was spacious but a chaotic mess of clutter.
The first hour vanished as I cleared the space, stacking odds and ends against the walls.
Then began the real work. Back and forth I went, step after step into the relentless rain.
Sodden logs, heavy and dripping, were hauled from the yard and stacked against the stone walls.
Mark and Ellie were shadows behind the main house window, silent witnesses to the struggle.
They never stepped out, never called out to ask why, but I could feel the weight of their gaze following every move.
The pile in the yard was a mountain, and after three hours of labor, barely a fraction had been moved.
Moving it all wasn't the goal.
All I needed was enough to last them a week or two.