“’Honey,” Dard called to Dessie, “bring in the pine cones. We’ll have a big fire tonight.”
As she scampered toward the shed Dard spoke over her head.
“There’s a heavy snow on the way, Lars.”
“So?” the man at the table did not appear worried.
“Well, snow’s never stopped them from coming before.” He was relaxed, at peace.
Dard was silent but his eyes flickered beyond Lars’ shoulder to the objects leaning against the wall. They were never mentioned, those crutches. But in deep snow! Lars never went outside in winter, he couldn’t! How could they get away unless the mysterious others had a horse or horses. But perhaps they did. That was always his greatest fault—worrying over the future-borrowing trouble ahead, as if they didn’t have enough already to go around!
Dessie was back to feed the fire slowly one cone at a time. Dard scraped the meat slivers into the iron pot and added a shriveled potato carefully diced. Then he grew reckless and wrenched off the lid of a can to pour its treasured contents to thicken the water. If they were going away they’d need feeding up to make the trip and there would be little sense in hoarding supplies they could not carry with them.
“Birthday?” Dessie watched this move in wide-eyed surprise. “But my birthday’s in the summer, and Daddy’s was last month, and yours,” she counted on her fingers, “is not for a long time yet, Dardie.”
“Not a birthday. Just a celebration. Get the spoon, Dessie, and stir this carefully.”
“’Celebration,” she considered the new word thoughtfully. “I like celebrations. You going to make tea, too, Dardie? Why, this is just like a birthday!”