When I emerge from the bedroom I’m surprised to find it’s already evening. Aaron’s stretched out on the couch, reading a book, though the bookmark doesn’t look much further on from the place he last left it. He smiles at me warmly enough, though I instinctively know it’s one of those smiles that says ‘I don’t want to talk about it’. He lets me make him pancakes for supper—oddly shaped and rather too thick, but he eats them enthusiastically enough. There’s been some activity with the snowploughs outside, but work has stopped for the day and we’re still restricted to the cabin. I don’t make any comments about it, though. We play some card games and he whupps me every time, then he goes ahead of me to bed. He looks damned tired.
I can’t completely shake off the weird feelings from my ‘dream’
