“What about fuel?”
“Waino gave me a supply of wood and brickettes for the stove yesterday.”
“Have you got enough?”
“Yes—so far.”
“Good. As soon as it stops, I’ll be up with the truck.”
But the snow did not stop. The following day it lay ten feet high and was still coming.
Ervin called again. “The roads are closed,” he said. “I can’t get to you. Can you hold out?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I’m starting to cut up the furniture for the stove and I’m worried about the children.”
“I’ll come up the minute I can get there,” he said, “but I can’t do nothing about it yet.”
It snowed for three days and three nights without a letup. I tried to keep awake, dozing in a chair, never daring to let the fire go out. We had long since run out of fuel oil, but luckily we had the wood-burning cook stove. I broke up two tables, all the chairs, and was ruefully contemplating the wooden dresser. The phone had gone dead and we were completely isolated.