9
Brock
The single-story log cabin looked sturdy enough with logs peeled to ward off rot, its sod roof atop rubber matting that had been replaced two years earlier sprouted grass and weeds, attempting to blend man’s shelter into nature. A washboard and a few other ancient tools that looked to still be in working order hung on the side wall, the roof’s two-foot overhang protecting them from the elements. Maybe a half-cord of firewood stacked against the other wall, un-splint logs scattered in a pile a little ways away beside a three-sided shelter where the old man must have stacked firewood to keep it out of the rain and snow. An outhouse sat on its other side.
South-facing windows flanked the cabin’s door, and I stuck my half-eaten protein bar between my teeth I’d chewed on while walkin
